The Jeans-That-Do-Not-Fit & Me
Illustration by Annabelle Walsh.
(Content Warning: Please note that this article includes descriptions and discussions of disordered eating and body dysmorphia.)
After completing my semi-annual closet clean-out, it struck me that three out of five pairs of jeans I own do not fit me; they didn’t really fit me when I bought them either— and they probably will not fit me in the future. To be clear, these jeans of mine are too small, not too big. I have owned these specific jeans-that-do-not-fit for the last 5-10 years. I never wear them, never try them on, and never really think of them until I go through my clothes. Nonetheless, each time I organize my wardrobe, I place them in the pile of clothes I plan to keep. I kept them once more this past spring. Clothing items that are too small are vilified in a woman’s wardrobe. They are the monsters in our closets, who gather dust until they unfurl themselves and gnash gaping teeth that refuse to zip up. We are told to either hold onto them as motivations to lose weight or to get rid of them, buy clothes that fit, and relieve ourselves of the burdensome thin-ideal they represent. [1] These recommendations suggest there is a way to deal with ill-fitting clothes that will lead to a better you. They reflect other rules of the fashion system; rules that you can become a fantastical ideal if you act the ‘right’ way and if you buy the ‘right’ clothes.
Rules and expectations surrounding clothing can be seen as superficial and insignificant. Clothing is indeed a superficial adornment of the body; as such, a preoccupation with fashion connotes objectionable characteristics like narcissism and vanity, and is dismissible in favor of more discerning pursuits. [2] So since fashion rules pertain to one's appearance, they should arguably be ignored. However, clothing norms address a situation that is intensely personal to an individual, so the inclination to follow such rules deserves deeper examination. In reality, the pressure to fit into certain conventions of dress is immense due to the close relationship between our clothing, our bodies, and our sense of self. Dress is a situated embodied practice that is mediated by the very human desire to be socially accepted. [3] We all want to avoid being ostracized by the dominant social group and social norms, and dressing appropriately is a way to fit in. On top of the social standards that influence the way we dress, the fashion system shapes what styles are currently trendy. [4] We internalize these two external pressures and—sometimes unconsciously, sometimes consciously—consider them in our daily clothing choices. Yes, dress is linked to an individual’s identity, but what we wear also alleviates the social anxiety of being the odd one out by allowing us to suitably suit up for social settings.
“Relearning how to eat made life possible, but relearning the rest made life livable.”
People living with mental illness already do not fit into current societal standards and, when social expectations of dress also cannot be met, it further distances them, making them feel “othered.” I approach this subject having lived with an eating disorder during my teen years and into my early twenties. In my case, self-imposed regulations connected to my mental illness made social norms less significant. My relationship with my body and my sense of self was warped from the illness, and in turn so was my connection to clothing. Throughout my recovery, therefore, in addition to relearning how to eat and take care of myself, I also had to relearn the way I regard myself in relation to people, places, and things. Relearning how to eat made life possible, but relearning the rest made life livable. Changing my relationship to my surroundings was a consistent consideration. For instance, the act of dressing your body is as habitual a daily practice as the act of feeding your body. I probably eat 3-5 times a day. Meanwhile, during a typical day, I change outfits at least two or three times—once for the day, once again for relaxing after the day is done, and finally, once more for sleeping. Take into account changing clothing for a specific activity like exercising, as well as daily practices like going to the bathroom, and the amount of partial or complete (un)dressing that occurs every day starts to add up. When sick as I was, every act of (un)dressing—as well as every meal time, every interaction with another person, every seat taken on a chair, and more—was an ugly confrontation with the body. Do these pants fit tighter or looser than last week? I should be a smaller size. My legs shouldn’t spread this much when I sit down. That cellulite is new. I couldn’t pinch this much fat before. I need to be small enough to fit the tightest bra clasp. I haven’t lost weight, these clothes are just old and stretched out. How much do I weigh with my clothes off? With my clothes on? [5] Trying to manage the negative emotions that emerge in each of these instances is indescribably exhausting work. Not much mental space remains to be concerned about wearing a socially acceptable outfit to school.
Illustration by Annabelle Walsh.
Which brings me back to my jeans-that-do-not-fit. The rules of fashion do not adequately help address my decision to keep these clothes, but neither does the idea that fashion is an exercise largely dictated by social settings. My relationship with my body, my clothing, my environment, and with others is still influenced by my experience living with—and recovering from—a mental illness. Consequently, my choice to continually keep these jeans has to be measured with my lived experience in mind. I keep these jeans because it feels like the right thing for me to do. I think. After years of being harmed by my mind’s messaging, it is still difficult to trust my own reasoning. I wonder if I am just keeping these clothes as a way to criticize myself for not fitting into them. I wonder if keeping them puts pressure on me to fit into them in the future. Additionally, every year when I make the choice to keep clothing that does not fit me, I feel slightly guilty as I know I’m doing something that goes against what ‘should’ be done. Since the jeans are too small and unworn, it’s recommended I get rid of them. I don’t. My embarrassment over not meeting social standards makes me second-guess my instinct that tells me these jeans are calling to be kept. Over the years I’ve rid myself of many too-small articles of clothing that contributed to damaging thoughts and feelings. Getting rid of them didn’t suddenly make me ‘better,’ nor did it erase the fact that I was ever sick, but it did mitigate some of the harsh thoughts I would direct at my body and myself. This year I find my jeans-that-do-not-fit do not weigh heavily on my self-image. I feel confident that I’m not holding onto them as a form of punishment. If I were, I think I’d be imagining a circumstance in which I wear them, as I admittedly have done in prior years. However, I currently have no illusions of fitting into these jeans, and I also don’t plan on wearing them in the future. In fact, their connection to my past helps me feel more comfortable in myself as I currently am. Furthermore, going against expectations makes me feel in charge of my own decisions; this small act of resistance helps me retain a sense of control over an aspect of life. If I got rid of the jeans because of external pressures, I wouldn’t be making my own choice. Although I no longer try to dangerously control my body, I still want to feel a sense of ownership over my actions. I cannot control my body and I cannot control the jeans, but I can assert some independence when it comes to how I think about them. More importantly, I have worked very hard for many years to rid myself of internal rules dictating how I should look and act, and have no impulse to start following external rules that, likewise, will not necessarily generate great improvement in my self-esteem.
“Thing-power encapsulates the capacity for material objects “to animate, to act, to produce effects dramatic and subtle.” It is an inhuman force that exists in all materials on this earth, an aspect of that intangible spirit whose presence we humans are aware of, but we are unable to pin down”
I also don’t follow these rules because while my jeans-that-do-not-fit don’t bring me joy, they still provide a worthwhile service as they stay in my possession. Namely, the jeans serve as a strong reminder of my eating disorder recovery process. Continuing to keep them represents my continuing recognition of my body and mind for what it was and what it has been through. As I’ve already mentioned, fashion is an embodied practice that links the individual to the world they live in. Clothes connect a body to a specific time and place, and in return, the clothes themselves remain connected to the time and place in which they were worn. Clothes like a child’s shoe or a wedding dress may no longer fit and may not be worn again, but because they hold sentimental value that can be appreciated by a vast majority of people, it is not suggested they be disposed of. I believe the jeans-that-do-not-fit belong in a kindred category, just one that is perhaps not as widely recognized. They live in my closet because of my mental illness; I bought each pair of jeans at a different stage throughout my experience with an eating disorder. Although they have never been worn, they remain connected to different moments in my eating disorder illness and recovery process. My sentimental attachment to these jeans is not dissimilar to my sentimental attachment to my prom dress. They are physical symbols of a significant part of my life. To me, getting rid of these jeans would represent a disavowal of my experience with an eating disorder. It would be an action that justifies the shame I sometimes feel about having had an eating disorder, and that is not something I want to foster. There’s no harm in keeping a few pairs of jeans if it helps me accept myself a little bit more. My decision to keep my jeans-that-do-not fit as a form of memorabilia may not be as relatable as my decision to keep my prom dress, but it’s equally as valid due to the connection between clothing, time, and space.
Illustration by Annabelle Walsh.
The other reason I think these jeans still serve a purpose is that they make me consider that my clothes are separate from me, which allows me to frame the world around me in relation to something other than my own body. As I just explored, the way we have embodied clothes in the past leaves imprints on clothes even when they are not being worn. I keep the jeans-that-do-not-fit because the clothes we leave unworn connect us to the body and identity we had when we wore them, or wanted to wear them. By virtue of simply being things, however, the same unworn clothes also hold an energy distinct from the human body. Jane Bennett proposes that non-human bodies, or inanimate ‘things,’ possess an active life-force, and she aptly calls this life force “thing-power.” [6] Thing-power encapsulates the capacity for material objects “to animate, to act, to produce effects dramatic and subtle.” [7] It is an inhuman force that exists in all materials on this earth, an aspect of that intangible spirit whose presence we humans are aware of, but we are unable to pin down. [8] For example, a shoelace that becomes untied and trips the shoe wearer is exerting thing-power, and it still holds that same energy when it sits on a shoe rack—another material object that in carrying shoes is exerting its own force. When you consider that thing-power exists, the relationship between yourself and material things needs to transform. The rules, as they were, change. For me and the jeans-that-do-not-fit, thing-power levels the playing field as it affords material things an everlasting, inherent value separate from the value placed on them by people. Thinking about thing-power makes me second-guess whether I am keeping the jeans for all the reasons I have already laid out, or if I am keeping them because their energy is provoking me to keep them. The clothes I own and wear equally remind me of their own lifeforce. Still, the thing-power of these jeans is singular. I bought them when I was trying to recover from my eating disorder, at a time when I was absolutely fixated on me and my body. Above all, thing-power disconnects the jeans from my own body, my own energy, my own power. This allows me to release some of the mental burden I feel from both internal and external pressures to do the ‘right’ thing. When the thing is doing the doing, I am free to just let go.
Next spring when I go through my closet, these jeans will emerge once more. Maybe they will provoke a wave of self-criticism and I’ll decide to get rid of them. Or, maybe they won’t provoke sentiment at all and I will realize I no longer need them to represent moments from my past. My reaction to the jeans next time will surely be different than now because as my relationship with my body changes, so does my relationship with my clothes. Hopefully, I still recognize their distinct dynamism. To understand clothing that I once wanted to wear on my body as a thing separate from my body is an indescribably freeing feeling—and one I plan to hold onto.
Notes
[1] Searching the internet on the subject was not a fun rabbit hole for me. Some of the first articles I found in a quick Google search include:
Laura Tedesco, “Should You Keep - Or Toss - Your ‘Skinny’ Clothes?” Women’s Health Magazine, May 13, 2014, https://www.womenshealthmag.com/weight-loss/a19902012/skinny-clothes/.
Olivia Muenter, “Why Holding on to ‘Goal Weight’ Clothes is so Much More Dangerous than it Seems,” Bustle, February 19, 2018, https://www.bustle.com/p/why-holding-onto-goal-weight-clothes-is-so-much-more-dangerous-than-it-seems-8209538.
Geneen Roth, “Throw Away Your Thin Clothes,” Prevention, November, 3, 2011, https://www.prevention.com/weight-loss/a20466883/do-you-keep-your-skinny-clothes/.
[2] These associations are also linked to the patriarchal dichotomy that places ‘traditionally male’ rational pursuits of the mind above ‘female’ bodily emotions. Over the years I’ve come to acknowledge part of the shame I feel surrounding my eating disorder comes from feeling like a failure for succumbing to a disease so entangled with physical appearance and not being able to mentally work my way out on my own.
[3] Joanne Entwhistle, “Fashion and the Fleshy Body: On Dress as an Embodied Practice,” Vestoj, 2015, http://vestoj.com/fashion-and-the-fleshy-body-on-dress-as-an-embodied-practice/.
[4] Entwhistle, “Fashion and the Fleshy Body.”
[5] It’s worth noting that these questions are just examples of some of the things I thought when I was sick. Different thoughts arose in different situations and at varying frequency. I am left now with memories of my mindset as it was. I would’ve put different words to my feelings at the time. Finally, these are not memories I try to access frequently, and I suspect there are specific thoughts I’ve edited from my mind to an extent. My strongest recollection is just how incessant the thoughts/feelings were and how they were certainly informed by the clothing I wore and the environment I wore things in.
[6] Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, (Duke University Press, 2010).
[7] Bennett, Vibrant Matter, 6.
[8] Bennett, Vibrant Matter, 14.
