Skinny Jeans, Fat Knees: A Study in Self Loathing
Who here is ready for the skinny jean fad to go ahead and get on its way?
The very term, “skinny jeans” is a play on everything that was meant to be good about jeans.
My 16-year-old daughter looks fantastic in them. And while I am calling out “Amens,” what cruel fresh hot sauce is it that about the time a woman must lift her breasts up from around her waist to secure them in her bra, her daughters will be at peek bikini age?
You know sister, these girls are hanging like wet socks because you ravaged them like a voracious honey badger.
So, here I am, sitting on a donut pillow, with a broken tail bone, fully cognizant of every inch of my body. I won’t bore you with the details, again, but if you don’t already know the sad tail… I mean tale, you can read it here.
It was not made to fall. I am tall and full-figured. Truly that is a stupid description. I am Jami Jo Amerine, and I am full of figure.
My maiden name is McKelvie. I am of Scottish-Norwegian descent. We spell McKelvie wrong, just like my parents spelled Jami wrong. My ancestors most likely robbed and pillaged your people, and then we gave birth in the woods to strapping sons, who would go one to rob and pillage your strapping sons, moments after their birth.
And I would like to believe this is why nature chose to give me thick hips and calves that laugh in the face of “plus sized” boots. But that isn’t really working for me here in 2019.
I wear a size 9 ½ shoe.
My bra is a double D, that often begs me to woman up and trade in for a triple. When I am “thin” I am a size 10. When I am just right, I am a 12. And when I am not any of those sizes, I am a 14 or 16.
I do not know how much I weigh. I gave that practice up a long time ago. You see, girls like me, you can’t guess our weight. Although, that is a fun game. The nurse puts the scale on 100… and I say, “that’s cute…” 150… keep guessing… and then she inevitably says, “Wow, you carry that well, I had no idea… you have such a pretty face.”
Shut it missy.
Sure, if I shaved my head, I would drop a quick 20. Actually, when I get my hair thinned out and my bangs trimmed, I can fit into a size 8 blouse.
No, that doesn’t make any sense.
But I am here to tell, you most of what I have believed and alleged about my body for the better part of 32-years, doesn’t either.
My shelves are lined with the answer I have been looking for, I am well read.
And my closet is packed full of that which I look fantastic in, that which I will wear again, maybe. Then there are those fashion items in reserve, in case pie wins out over low-fat yogurt and lettuce.
Oh, honey, please don’t send me diet advice or the latest supplement, that is not why I am here.
I am here to tell you a story about a woman, caught in adultery, who is about to be stoned to death.
Come with me now… try to imagine.
In a crumpled heap in a dry and dusty town square, she is curled up trembling and weeping. Her heart pounds so intensely, should she stand you could see its vibrations through her cloak.
The crowd around her is roaring insults. She is vile, they spit and curse at her.
In an attempt to escape her impending doom, she squeezes her eyes tightly shut. Salty tears run down and make a muddy paste on her flushed cheeks. She dares not look up. The sun is high in the sky and it is attacking her back through her heavy robes. Beads of sweat roll down her spine and trace around her breasts to her belly.
Her throat is parched, she tries to lick her lips, but her tongue is pasty with bile.
It will hurt, to be stoned to death. She tries not to think of it, but she knows, it will hurt. The crowd is growing louder. Their sandaled feet kick up dust around her as they begin to collect the stones, she looks to her right and her left, eyes still cowering.
There is dried blood on some of the stones, from the last massacre.
Her heart pounds in her ears. Remorse, regret, shame, and prayers for mercy assault her. She remembers; a glimpse of her mother, her sisters, and innocence. How could she have ever fathomed this demise?
Someone kicks the ground at her, and a tiny pebble plucks her in the cheek. The sting, the trickle of blood, it is just a teaser for what lies ahead.
She hears the question, but she cannot comprehend what is being asked.
But the answer? She hears the answer and it alarms her.
“Who among you is without sin, you cast the first stone!”
She sees his ragged sandals, the dirty cuff of his robe. His voice is loud but peaceable.
The crowd mumbles, time stands still. And then, the stones begin to drop. Dust explodes around her, she chokes on the murky air. As it settles, she lifts her head just a little. He is kneeling before her. She doesn’t know Him, and yet, she does. His hand reaches for hers and He pulls her up, slowly, gently. Then, His arm is around her, steadying her wobbling legs.
Embarrassed at the uncontrollable tremors pulsating from her frame, she cannot take her eyes off of Him. Shame begins to throttle her, she tries to look away. Still, she cannot break the stare at this figure, who saved her.
“Who is here to condemn you?”
Her terror filled eye glance about the square. The sound escapes her, “No one?”
Here among the condemned, I see the epidemic. I partake in its bitter banter.
I have laid at His feet on a dressing room floor. Heels tangled in jeans not meant for Vikings.
Who is here to condemn you?
I look to the right and the left and see only my reflection.
“Just me Lord.”
I imagine Him pulling me to my feet, my legs aren’t trembling, but the 6-inch hole I somehow managed to cram my “full figured” ankle into has stopped all blood from circulating to my feet. He steadies me.
I lean into Him, for this fashion trend will surely be the death of me. And I dare not look. One foot still wrapped tightly in the demin-4% spandex vice, the other donning a sock embroider with narwhals and tulips.
Slowly, my eyes creep up past my thick knees. Up past my lumpy thighs, past the overly worn Hanes Her Way yellow cotton undies, on to my fleshy belly, and the traces of pregnancies past. On over a generous bust, to the lines in my neck, a double chin, the sun spots on my cheeks, and laugh lines around my green eyes.
I hear Him ask again.
Who is here to condemn you?
What lie did you believe that I wasn’t willing to set you free from?
Why do you stay face down, bound in pants not made for the body I created?
The body, where I dwell?
I untangle my foot and toss the skinny nightmares into the “NO WAY” pile. I stand before this mirror, and I won’t lie, I don’t look at the one behind me. Because two-way mirrors are not from Jesus.
So? Who is here to condemn you?
Someone will always be there to cast the first stone.
[bctt tweet=”I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well Psalm 139:14. #bodyimage #skinnyjeans” quote=”I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well Psalm 139:14. #bodyimage #skinnyjeans”]
There is always a memory, statement, or not-so-passive-aggressive attack that can send you straight to cookies and twinkies. Surely, we are easily distracted by before and after stories and the latest fad.
But is that for you?
Is it for you, Jami with no e?
Plenty has been written, most likely it has all been said. But as I snapped the shot of my “full figured” knees in size 14 boot cut jeans, I thought, who is here to condemn me?
No, truly, not just comment below with self-help tips or “Oh, but you have such a pretty face!” But condemn me. Destroy me with literal stones. Who is that?
In the arena of body image, too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, too much, too little, full of figure, figure-less, what to eat, when to eat it, and how to get just right, He steps in and reaches out a loving hand, “I saved you already. Live saved and free. Trust me. For I know the plans I have for you, and baby girl, they aren’t those jeans.”
May your floors be sticky and your jeans loose fitting. Love, Jami
So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed. John 8:36
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