About 75% of my shirts in my closet are too big for me. Time to purge as I’m never going back to size 24 again!

Yesterday, after an incident involving sweat pants, I took stock of my closet and discovered that more than half of my clothes don’t fit. For some reason, I’m still keeping my fat clothes.

Wardrobe Malfunction
So what happened to make me take a hard look at my closet?

Tuesday it was freezing so I tossed on a pair of sweats over my biker shorts before heading to the gym. While walking to my car, I noticed the sweats were starting to slip.  “A little loose,” I thought and simply pulled them up and continued walking.

By the time I got to the car they fell down past my butt. Thank god for the biker shorts!

How embarrassing…yet awesome.

Closet Full Of Fat Clothes
After my workout, I went straight to my closet. Most of the clothes, including those sweats, are size 24. I’m now an 18 and on my way to size 16.

I’m sure part of the reason I kept the clothes is financial – it’s just too expensive to keep replacing my entire wardrobe every 4-6 months.  I’ve thought about going to a tailor, but by the time I get to that point, the clothes are so worn, it’s not worth it (note to self — learn to sew in 2014).

But I was quick to get rid of all of my size 28 clothes (except 1 pair of jeans I keep to remind myself how far I’ve come).

Most of my 24s look pretty ragged and faded. Why would I keep those?

It can’t all be about costs.

Fat Doesn’t Mean Safe
For most of my adult life I was a size 24. It wasn’t until 5 years ago that I started wearing 28s. Maybe a part of me views size 24 as familiar (a.k.a., “safe”) and I kept those clothes just in case…

That scares me.

There’s a reason why my blog’s tag is “My world’s expanding while my butt is shrinking.”

When I weighed 325, I never tried sushi, weight lifting, a Color Run, shopping at Old Navy, or run a 5K. Heck, I never told anyone I weighed 325!

So what was my life like 87 pounds ago?

I settled for a daily 2-hour commute to and from a job that at times sucked the life out of me. Exhausted mentally and physically, I spent my evenings on a couch with a glass of wine (or two) in one hand and a remote in the other, flipping through channels from one bad show to the next.

Being fat meant I didn’t have to try, take risks or worry about being vulnerable. I felt…safe.

What a crock! I wasn’t safe. I stopped living.

Ugh! I’m not going back. I can’t. I never want fat to feel “safe.”

My sights are firmly set on getting below 200 pounds by Easter 2014.  A very doable short-term goal on my march to 140 pounds.

Time to thin out that closet.