When, in the course of eating disorder recovery, it becomes necessary to purchase a whole new wardrobe because you've outgrown everything you own, bring patience, a bottle of water, a snack, a credit card with a high limit, and a support person because it's going to take a while.

With the weather hitting the 90s today, I tried on some of my shorts from last summer (that had fit me pre-relapse) and realized that basically nothing fit. My treatment team had increased my target weight slightly since I tend to lose weight very quickly, which I was aware of. But I also overshot my new target by about 10 pounds. I flipped out when I realized that I weighed that much but after a LOT of CBT from TNT (how's that for acronym hell?), I've started to accept it. I don't like it, and I do want to restrict and lose the weight, but I also realized that weight loss is how I got into this mess in the first place. I don't have to like my weight and appearance--and believe me, I certainly don't!--but I have started the long, slow road to accepting them.

Body acceptance, however minimal, still didn't leave me with much of anything to wear. So off to the store I went, accompanied by my mom and my Blackberry. I think I tried on every pair of shorts that Kohl's had. No joke. And nothing seemed to fit right. I have the Arnold Family Thighs, which can make clothes shopping...interesting...at even the best of times. But today seemed to bring out the world's most oddly designed shorts I have ever seen. The legs would be tight, but the waist was so huge that I just pulled the damn things off without unbuttoning them. I don't have that freakish of a shape!

But I did find three pairs of shorts and two pairs of capris, so I should be all set. The irony is that I found a bathing suit with the least amount of melodrama. It's a black and white tankini- I have a long torso and always end up with a wedgie from one-piece suits and I can't even imagine getting in a bikini. And the bottoms have a little short wrap skirt over them, which helps cover a) my ass and b) my scars from cutting. I hate wearing a bathing suit for all of the usual ED reasons, and I also hate wearing one because I'm extremely self-conscious of my cutting scars. I feel like my thighs are freaky obvious not just because they're the source of local seismic activity, but also because they're covered in scars. But the tankini bottoms covers the worst of them up, so that makes me happy.

I hated this experience. I hated that my ED sucked half my first paycheck. I hated trying everything on. I hated having to try bigger sizes than I'm used to. I've never really been fond of shopping, and having to shop for new clothes and feel like a fat failure, well, that just sucked. I'm trying to use the experience for good instead of evil. I'm trying to tell myself that if I stick with recovery, I no longer have to empty my bank account for new clothes once a season and then clothe every skinny kid who shops at thrift stores with the cast-offs. I won't have to approach clothes with trepidation because I no longer know if/how something will fit. Getting dressed may one day cease to be a drama worthy of a Lifetime TV movie.

Don't get me wrong- I still think I look fat and hideous. I still avoid looking at myself in mirrors. That hasn't changed. But I'm starting to reframe the problem: it's not my size/weight, it's my hatred of my current size/weight. It's my inability to let go of whatever it was the AN gave me. My problem isn't that I'm a fat fat fattywad (or I think that I'm a fat fat fattywad), it's that I let this define me.

I don't want to give away all of my old shorts and cute t-shirts. I have sentimental attachments to some of them (souvenirs from Irish festivals, college giveaways, etc.), but maybe I'll make a quilt out of the t-shirts and hope that the girls in my town enjoy their new wardrobe. I am NOT doing this again. It's uncomfortable and expensive. So I'm saving my receipts as a motivator for recovery.

And after all the shopping is said and done (though before the credit card bills come due), I'm actually feeling okay. It was a necessary step, and I took it. There's not anything more I can ask of myself.

It's no secret that clothing sizes are somewhat random. Although I do mostly wear one size (let's say X), I do own several pairs of pants in size Y, and several in size W. Furthermore, even in the same brand, all pairs of size X pants are not the same size. Finding clothes is pretty much a crap shoot- and I'm lucky. I wear "standard" size clothing- I don't have to try and find the one "plus-size" item crumpled at the back of the rack, nor am I exceptionally tall or exceptionally curvy.

Turns out people with eating disorders aren't the only ways getting annoyed and frustrated at this. A new survey of people from Norway, Sweden, and Finland shows dissatisfaction with the non-standardized clothing sizes.

The report shows that the sizing systems used today are perceived as confusing and varied by consumers. The results of the measurements of the trousers support this as they show enormous variations between and within clothing sizes. Trousers labeled as size L can in some cases even be smaller than trousers labeled as size S. The variations are greater for women's trousers than for men's trousers, especially women's trousers in big sizes. Despite this, the report shows that there are few systematic variations between sizes and size labeling that can be referred to the country of origin of the clothing make, the producing country, or general differences between the Nordic countries. The exception is shops aimed at young women, in which the trousers were slightly smaller than they were in shops for adult customers...

...Improved knowledge about the link between the body, clothes and size labeling will make it easier for consumers to find clothes that fit and thereby also reduce the number of incorrect purchases. This knowledge is also important in relation to current discussions on body weight and body ideals.

Which poses the exact question I had when I initially started reading the press release: how would you standardize clothing sizes? And how would our culture's fear of obesity and love of thinness play into this? What about vanity sizing?

Any thoughts?

Here's some sage advice from the mother of a teen with an eating disorder:

A label is a number and a set of washing instructions - not a judgement, a way of life or a measure of worth.

I think that ED Awareness Week tends to focus overmuch on body image and media and everything, to the detriment of other aspects that I think people could use awareness about. That being said, body image does play a role in eating disorders, and clothes shopping can be a minefield.

Sizes aren't consistent from store to store, brand to brand, or item to item. It makes no sense, but it's true. And when your obsessions cause you to fear the size of clothing you wear, the random fluctuations really mess with your head.

Part of recovery is learning how to deal with this. I've gotten better. I think it helps somewhat that I never cared much about clothes and style and still don't, as there's a bit less unlearning to do. It also helps that most of my friends don't care, nor do they think discussing the minutiae of how a particular pair of pants fit is an appropriate topic for conversation.

That our society considers size a moral issue doesn't cause eating disorders. It sure as hell triggers them, though, and it most definitely makes recovery a lot harder. There's power when you start refusing you buy into that nonsense, when a pair of pants is really just a pair of pants.

So I went shopping this weekend. A fairly standard event. I even walked away with two pairs of new pants. They fit pretty much the same, give or take a few tiny details.

The problem?

These pants were two completely different sizes. Not sizes X and Y, which is frustrating in and of itself, but at least I get that on some level. No. These two pants (which, should you need reminding, fit exactly the same) were sizes X and Z. Size X is my standard size. Go through my closet, and at least 75% of my pants are that size.

I have to confess, the size Z pants fit quite nice. I don't think I, myself, looked quite as nice in them, but they fit well. I think I might, however grudgingly, come to accept that size should it be consistent in any manner.

Then again, there's the aspect that these sizes run small, so if I were an actual size Z, others would be larger sized as well. Which would make that size Z seem even smaller.

It makes no sense. Even I understand that.

I am quite jealous of guys who get to shop for pants based on waist and inseam. Much less guesswork.

The other point of this post is to ask myself the following: why do so many women (myself included) judge ourselves based on size when it's so obviously arbitrary. I mean, if a pair of size X pants fit the same as a pair of size Z, then what does size really tell us?

Not a whole freaking lot.

And yet we* go on thinking it does. What does it really say about you? I mean, you as a person. Even your body- what can a size say about your body, other than in extreme generalities. A person who is a size 18 is likely larger than a size 4, but that doesn't mean they're nicer or healthier or anything except that they're larger.

It's a pair of pants. My self-worth is predicated on some freaking $20 jeans? I sure as bloody hell hope not.

I've never met most of the people who read and post on my blog, people who I now consider my friends and accomplices in ED recovery. Therefore, I don't know what size you are or aren't. I don't even know your hair color (mine is reddish brown, if you must know). I value you for who you are and all of your wacky sayings and neuroticisms**. NOT your clothing size.

*Forgive the royal "we." I'm trying to generalize to most of the women I know, except the ones I know who don't actually give a rat's ass about their pant sizes. May they be fruitful and multiply, and may I soon be among them.
**Blogger spell-checker thought this word should be "eroticisms." Touche, spell checker. Touche.

When I was at the Irish Festival this weekend, I intended to pick up some more Irishwear. For the most Irish-looking non-Irish girl ever. I browsed tables of t-shirts, most of them pretty tacky.

"Kiss my Shamrocks"
"Guinness- more than just a breakfast drink"
"Everyone loves an Irish Girl"

And so on.

Well, I picked up a cute little pink t-shirt with the Guinness toucan on the front. It was adorable. I rummaged through the pile for a medium, since they were the tight, snug-fitting kind. I held it up. It was ridiculously small. So I keep looking for a large.

I am interrupted in my search by a mom and daughter. The mom picks out one of the t-shirts for her daughter, and says "This one should be small enough."

This is the same t-shirt I was looking at.

The daughter was about 8 or so.

I had just confused a girl's shirt for a woman's one.

That's messed up. I get that this could happen initially if they were the non-descript plain colored shirts. But no. I was quite aware that these shirts were intended for more of a teenage/young 20s type of audience.

They weren't.

These were kids' t-shirts.

Women and girls are wearing the same clothing. I don't find it disturbing (in this particular case) that this shirt was meant for girls. Rather, I was disturbed for numerous other reasons:

1) Women's shirts are now cut so small that they can be confused with girls' shirts.
2) I am so used to seeing women dressed like girls that I confused the shirts.
3) I am so used to seeing girls dressed like women that I confused the shirts.

I don't...I don't know what to think. It is very hard for me (and other anorexia sufferers in my general age group) to figure out what to wear and in what sizes. I don't ever, for a moment, think that my eating disorder was about wanting to wallow in childhood. However, it's much harder to recover when you're supposed to dress like a little girl only you, um, look like a woman.

In fact, women are supposed to look like girls so much so that their clothing can be almost interchangeable. There is a lot of sexualization of girls in the media, no doubt about it. But I'm wondering: could the opposite be happening? Could women be told to look like girls as much as the other way around?

Most models don't have curves. Real women do. Fashion designers don't like that. So basically you're supposed to look like a pre-pubescent girl for your entire life.

It makes everything quite confusing.

There's this sort of lack of clothing for women in their thirties. It seems like you go from wearing tight, low-cut jeans that show off your butt crack to loose elastic-waisted cotton pants. I don't want either.

I just want to know what kind of shirt I'm looking at in a booth.

The fact that I'm hormonal notwithstanding, I've been an emotional basketcase these past few days.

Complete breakdown in Kohl's parking lot. Wailing and sobbing in my mom's car. I couldn't find a freaking pair of pants. All of the pants I had worn this spring didn't really fit very well, except for one pair of khakis. So I go and try on the same size only in black. They were suction-cupped to my ass. I try on the next size up. It's smaller than the first. I try on another pair, same size. They fit pretty well.

Then there were the jeans.

The Jean Fairy must have visited my closet and shrunk them. All two pair that I owned.

This did not bode well for a good mood.

Found jeans. Again, one size up from the pair that fit okay.

I think I'm going crazy at this point. Everything is "stretch" now, which means I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of finding something that fits just by looking. And so much for being comfortable in my size.

Ed then convinces me that my dietitian is lying about the fact that my weight has been stable. Of course I'm getting fat! She's just lying to be nice.

So I lose it. I'm frustrated from the lack of pants, frustrated because nothing fits right, and furious and terrified that I have gotten fat.

This, my friends, was not pretty. I sob my heart out to my therapist on the phone. I scream and swear at my mom for letting me get fat. I yell at clothing manufacturers. Then I made my mom drive me home where I fell asleep for a couple hours. I saved the day by suggesting that we go see the new Harry Potter movie. It was a nice 2 and a half hours of fun. And forgetting. At least a bit.

I don't like this, how these meltdowns happen out of the blue. It's like I'm muddling along just fine and then boom! I just fall to pieces.

I had been tired, doing a bunch of stuff for this fall, preparing readings and other course materials. Hormones. Anxiety. Bad anniversary coming up. And so on.

I know we're all emotional people deep down. I just wish I had a little bit more control over them. Could kind of say, "Not now, Carrie. This is not a convenient time to have a complete meltdown." And then lose it later, when I had time and space. Only life doesn't work that way.

I hate that.

Then again, all of these emotions spur creativity. I made jewelry tonight. Weeded the garden this afternoon- and was smart enough to use sunblock. Took some photos.

I only wish that my feelings could come in moderation. No, I have these ridiculous mood swings, which is not surprising given a strong family history of bipolar disorder.

I just want to learn how to live with it. Roll with it.

Along with the realization this morning that I was going to have to spend half and hour scraping the snow and other winter detritus off my car that had accumulated overnight, I also realized: crap. I was going to have to go clothes shopping.

I've never been a fan of clothes shopping, my motto basically being: get in, get out, get done. There's a reason I have such brand loyalty- it's so much easier to find pants that fit. I'll "explore" with shirts, but it's the standard pants for me.

Now, with weight restoration (i.e., weight gain and every anorexic on the face of this planet knows the meaning of the euphemism so why bother?), I understood at least tacitly, that I was going to outgrow my sick pants. You know, the jeans with which you measure your worth, the ones that, if droopy at the waist, means you have been a good girl.

Those jeans are now suction-cupped to my ass. I can hardly breathe. I feel like a complete hippo.

Of course, all of the other women at work are going clothes shopping, but for the opposite reason: their pants are too big.

That makes me feel like I've been the quarterback for the losing team in the Superbowl, and not wearing any protective gear. Why oh why do they have to be doing their damn contest NOW? Couldn't they wait (ha!) until I inched my way out the door?

But that would mean life would be fair and recovery would be easy (easi-er, at any rate).

There is nothing I am dreading more than walking into a dressing room and not knowing what size to request. Not all that long ago, I just asked for the smallest one and hoped it wouldn't fall off. Now I feel I need to go into the maternity section to find something that will fit my cellulite-laden frame. I feel like my weight is shooting through the roof. I have either been losing or maintaining for the past 3 years, and the concept of gaining really has me antsy.

Losing weight is good and gaining is evil. That's all there is to it. Every female in America (and probably a good portion of the men) know it in their bones. We have, thankfully, passed the "New Year's Resolution" diet phase. Now, however, we are about to embark on the next great yearly landmark in dieting: the bathing suit.

I always wore t-shirts over my bathing suits because, well, let's just say I go from girl to lobster in under 15 minutes. That had more to do with practicality than style. I have worn a bathing suit about three times in the past five years. I am not looking forward to this prospect. I am not looking forward to making peace with the fact that the size of my jeans may contain two numbers, both of which are not zero. I do not like this and I am more than willing to share it.

But is it that I don't fit the pants, or that the pants just don't fit ME? "Oh I'm too fat for these pants!" we lament, staring at our butts and thighs in the three-way mirror. I have to remind myself- dude. They're pants. Do I really want a piece of fabric to have this much control over my life?

So, when I brave the malls this weekend, I will find pants that fit ME, that are perfectly me-sized. I refuse to waste any more time trying to make myself fit my pants.