cmdreamer

Yesterday, I had an odd experience ringing up a customer. I find myself in precarious situations often working in retail. I can’t tell if shopping for clothes makes people open up more or if they can sense that I go to school for psychology because I swear, at least once a day, I’m learning personal details of these people’s lives. And I don’t mind it. I just find it interesting. 

So, I shouldn’t have been so surprised by this conversation but it took me off guard. This woman walked up to the register and she looked upset. Mind you, that happens and oftentimes they take it out on me. I was waiting for the rant about how these clothes are too expensive or how she couldn’t find anything she liked because fashion has changed so much. Instead, I got a teary eyed explanation as to why she was buying a size too big for her body. 

The moment she put the pants and shorts down on the table she asked me how our sizes run. I explained that they’re pretty true to size, because they are. She looked more distraught by that answer and it confused me without the context. “These aren’t my size. I’m not a size ___.” Somehow before she told me, I already knew that this was more than a weight comment. I get people coming to me and talking about how they gained weight and I hear the disappointment and shame but this was different. I know because I’ve felt the unheard words hang in the air when I talk about the clothing I have to wear now. 

“I can’t wear anything else.” 

She lifted up her oversized shirt and showed me that the top half of her legs were in braces. They were bulky and looked uncomfortable. Again, I don’t know what prompted her to choose me to show or if her repeating “these aren’t my sizes” was her trying to convince me or herself. All I know is that at that moment my brain was at war with my feelings.

I wanted nothing more than to lift my pant leg and show her why I couldn’t wear jeans or leggings anymore. I wanted her to know that I understood on a level that no one who isn’t in our position can. Because in the grand scheme of things, wearing bigger pants isn’t the end of the world. It is, though, a symbol of the end of my old one. 

I didn’t show her and I didn’t tell her. I struggled with that in the back of my mind the rest of the day. I felt so ashamed that I hadn’t been honest with her the way she had been with me. I placed the blame on the fact that I’m at work and it would be inappropriate and maybe it would have been. But, I think about what it might have meant to me in the beginning if someone had shared that with me. To know that I’m not the only one struggling with putting my old clothes to the side in exchange for new ones. Or to know that she probably lives in pajama pants and sweatpants at home because it’s easier, not because she wants to. 

It’s frustrating that I questioned whether to be a good human or a good employee. And maybe, just maybe I’m using that as an excuse. Maybe I just wasn’t brave enough to be that open because when I saw her face and heard the crack in her voice I was seeing a window into my feelings. Ones that I’ve gotten so good at glossing over these past few months. 

A few weeks ago I spent an hour trying to decide what swim bottoms I liked better. Which ones would fit me best and which ones I would feel comfortable wearing to the beach. I bought these with the hope that the conversation with my doctor would be a conversation about when Jean-Ralphio and I could finally part ways. I bought them knowing the chances of me ever getting to wear them were slim but I did it anyway. So maybe I just wasn’t ready to face the unresolved feelings of my life changing in ways that I wasn’t ever prepared for. But, if I could go back, I would have said something. I would have told her that I get it.

Because on some level, I’m incredibly grateful that Jean-Ralphio can be hidden under wide-leg linen pants. On another level, I wish he was out in the open for everyone to see like a cast or a scar because then maybe it wouldn’t feel like I’m carrying around this secret. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so lonely.