As discussed earlier, last weekend ended up being a solo weekend for me. No kids, no man. I haven’t had one of those in a very, very long time. And I gotta say, I rocked the shit out of it.
One of the things I did was work on packing. I started with my bedroom closet. I knew that it was in rough shape; a hidey-hole for things that I either didn’t want to deal with, or didn’t know how to deal with. I began pulled things out and sorting through them. Keep, toss, donate. I pulled out things that were easy to part with: clothes I was no longer interested in, a couple of pairs of shoes, other odds and ends. Keep, toss, donate.
Then I started finding them: the “fat” clothes.
Two years ago I was a fair bit heavier than I am now. I started committing myself at that point to being healthier again, and since that point have lost a bit of weight. As I shed the weight and needed new clothes, I saved all of the old ones. “Just in case”. Bags and bags of them – different sizes. It was like an archaeological dig of my weight loss progression. It wasn’t even that any of these clothes were that special or things that I particularly loved; they were clothes that I kept for backup in case the weight came back.
I guess I was half-expecting it to. Always keeping the potential of failure hovering in the background. Might as well keep myself prepared for the worst, right?
I turned to Twitter for advice: should I keep or should I ditch? The overall resounding response was to ditch ‘em. I bagged them up for donation, feeling pretty proud of myself for being able to let go like that. I dove back into my closet.
Next I hauled out a box that was lurking deep in my closet. I’d almost forgotten it was there, really. A box full of old keepsakes and mementos, and many, many love letters written to and from my ex husband, particularly from early on in our relationship. I had dragged this box with me from our home together into this new place when I moved in, three and a half years ago. I have no idea what possessed me to bring it with me. I sat there for a while with the box, feeling almost like I’d been sucker punched in the gut. So many memories there. So much history. So many lost hopes and dreams.
I knew what I had to do. I didn’t read them. The immediately went into the “toss” pile. I guess at the time that I moved out our home together I wasn’t quite ready to let go of all of that. Part of me still needed to mourn the loss of my marriage, of our dreams and goals that we had together. Now, four years later, I feel more than ready to say goodbye to that old life and move forward with my new one. A new life full of new hopes and dreams. A life that’s not burdened with painful reminders of a failed marriage. A life where “just-in-case”, backup fat clothes aren’t necessary .
Last weekend was important for me to have by myself. It gave me opportunity to say goodbye to those things and old ways, and give me a new focus for the future. I am even more ready than before to move forward into this life that CBG and I have been creating together for the last three and a half years.I’ll be moving on without a whole lot of my old baggage. Literally.
The past is gone. I have said my goodbyes. The future looks brighter and happier than anything I could have ever imagined for myself.