Kathy joined Weight Watchers. Shut up. Because it apparently breaks some weight loss commandment to display even a scintilla of cynicism at meetings, Waisted is where she bitches about eating, not eating, oversharing weight watchers, and probably you.

By Kathy Cacace [Archives]

Here are a few facts about my butt:

1. It is smaller than it used to be.
2. Despite its shrinking size, it is still the one place where I do not excessively gain weight, which is sad when you consider Jennifer Lopez, Kim Kardashian, and the fact that I will never be a Black Tail cover girl.
3. It is currently residing in a pair of black skinny jeans I purchased at Trash and Vaudeville.

These were my goal pants, and though I haven’t reached my final goal (nor have I decided what that goal actually is) I caved and bought a pair because, well, fuck you, I want good pants now. Prior to purchasing these pants (which I basically live in because they are the only pants I own that fit at all), I was courting a pair of jeans at Uniqlo. Same pair. I’d visit once or twice every couple of weeks and take them on a romantic getaway to the dressing room to see if they would fit. Each time I buttoned them up my waist looked less like two sausage links, but as of last week they still weren’t great. Stuck with the option to either purchase a pair of (quelle horreur!) bootcut jeans at Old Navy or keep on trucking in my current pants (which reveal so much asscrack when I walk that they’re basically a one way ticket to a public indecency charge), I figured it was time to try Trash.

So. Yes, I am wearing the largest size pants they sell, and yes, I could only afford one pair, and yes, one of the very first rejects from Make Me a Supermodel was there while I was and getting the star treatment even though he was a terrible model and—yes I’m going to go here—not even very cute in person and I think every boy is cute, but none of this matters because for once in my stupid Dorito-cheese-fingered binge of a life, I am wearing a pair of pants that look like they’re supposed to look on a human.

Not just on a human—on a girl. They button and they look normal on my legs and they’re skinny, like skinny jeans should be, despite the fact that I am not, which is an apparently baffling conundrum to designers. It’s so fucking lame for a pair of pants to make my day every single day, but when you spend approximately thirteen years feeling about as female (or male, or whatever gender you want to gender yourself to be) in your clothes as a brick wrapped in an old t-shirt, it’s a hard feeling to suppress.

To date, I’ve lost 27.8 pounds and killed 0.0 idiots. Both figures are a testament to the self-control I’m learning. I notice a difference when I look in the mirror and in the way my clothes fit, but going from fat to less fat is treacherous territory when it comes to “supportive remarks.” I’ve noticed that people compliment me the way they would gingerly congratulate the drug addict who gets off heroin but still smokes crippling amounts of weed: Great job, we’re proud, now, uh, yeah, get back to work.

Except for the other day. I was off work on Tuesday and, at probably 4:00 in the afternoon, I got a text inviting me for coffee. I had not worn pants all day. I pulled on a dirty pair of leggings, some seriously ratty jean shorts over them, and threw a jacket on top of the t-shirt I slept in. My hair was large, but asymmetrically so because I slept on it funny. Monday night’s eye makeup was smeared, Night of the Living Dead style, around my eyeballs.

I managed to actually stop traffic two times.

The first was a honking repair truck full of men yelling something in Spanish and, oddly, giving me the thumbs up. The second was a legitimate pimp in a fedora driving a silver Escalade who asked me where I was going and, when I was shockingly reticent about divulging my plans, told me I should, “go home and check Craigslist Missed Connections. You go check it.”

(I did. Nothing. Don’t promise me a missed connection, pimp, and then not deliver.)

I attribute my sudden popularity with those dudes less to the fact that I’ve lost almost thirty pounds and more to the fact that it was the first truly warm day and I don’t think anyone’s seen any skin on the street in months. Even if they’re covered by leggings and still slightly jiggly, legs are legs. And short shorts are short shorts. And guys who yell at on the street are dickhead assholes without exception; this pisses me off more than anything. But girls are girls, and, as it’s turning out, I am one.