Archimedes had his ‘eureka’ moment in the bath. Descartes had his in bed. I, on the other hand, had my ‘eureka’ moment in an H&M fitting room.
‘They fit!’ I sobbed, attractively, at the friend I’d dragged to the shops with me. ‘The size ten jeans - they really fit me!’
‘Yes, they fit you,’ my friend agreed. ‘Now, please blow your nose and do your flies up.’
It was one year and three stone since I’d last crammed myself into a pair of jeans - ugly size 16s that made me look as though I was wearing three bumbags down my pants and gave me the world’s worst case of camel-toe. Back then I’d been flirting heavily with obesity, thanks to my extended post-smoking cake binge.
But here I was now, slim again after several months of dieting, sliding my finger under the roomy waistband of some vintage-wash skinnies. It didn’t seem real.
The first sign that I was gaining weight came when I woke up one morning with a sudden pair of boobs. I’d always been flat-chested and boyish, running around in jeans with nary a bra or pair of heels to my name. Boobs were a new and exciting phenomenon; I didn’t actually realise I was eating more, I just assumed my Italian heritage was kicking in, and that I was finally Becoming A Woman. Eagerly I awaited the arrival of my childbearing hips, imagining myself stalking around moodily in a pencil skirt and balconette bra (all the Italians in my imagination are directed by Fellini).
Alas, when they came, my hips just brought more belly and bum padding, and I slowly began to expand - which triggered a complete volte-face in my personal style. Feeling lumpy and self-conscious in my usual crew-necks and clean lines, I opted for tea dresses and lacy cardigans cinched at the waist with big belts. I accessorised to draw attention away from my increasing size, but soon I was so covered in cocktail rings and seahorse pendants that I resembled an Etsy storefront.
Eventually, when I was so big that I’d swapped the dresses for oversized men’s t-shirts, and had taken to speculatively browsing marquees online, my knees gave out, and my doctor demanded that I do something drastic about my weight. Under his watchful eye I started a low-carb, shake-based plan - and it worked. In six weeks I was back in the land of crocheted cardigans and bird-print tea dresses. A month later I was donating those same dresses (and the bumbag jeans, which I could now slide both legs into) to charity.
Within a few short months I’d hit my target weight, but the entire process was so rapid that I was half-convinced that I’d gain the weight as soon as I looked at a potato, and didn’t dare shop for my new size until I’d eaten at least three. For science’s sake.
When I did finally go shopping, I was so overwhelmed that I ended up in that H&M fitting room, snotting all over my best friend’s shoulder, all a-panic. I had no idea what suited me. What was my style? Was I preppy, as I had been before I gained weight? Or was I boho now? What was I supposed to do with the boobs, hips and tummy that had somehow stuck around? What was my take on PVU sleeves? How about colour-blocking? How about neon? I had no idea. I was so used to judging clothes solely on how well they hid my bulk that, now I had no bulk to hide, I was totally confused.
In the end, of course, I just bought the clothes that showed off my figure the best. Lots of stripy lycra tops and, gloriously, size 10 skinny jeans. ‘LOOK AT MY DEFLATED BELLY!’ I roared at my friends for weeks afterwards. ‘TOUCH MY VISIBLE HIPBONES!’ (Capitals, deliberate). I’m so glad the novelty wore off eventually, because I realise now that I spent that entire period basically dressed as Where’s Wally.
The legacy of my weight gain still looms large over me. I’m always taking corners too widely, failing to recognise my own reflection in shop windows, and entirely discounting person-sized spots on crowded trains for being too small. Shopping for clothes is still a brain-training exercise - if I see a dress I like I’ll immediately assume I’m ‘too fat’ for it and start looking for something I can ‘get away with’ instead.
Luckily, my friends are great at helping me readjust my thinking. While the occasional colleague and/or acquaintance bombarded me with disapproval - one called me a ‘fat acceptance denier’ for daring to lose weight; another told me that the weight loss made me look like ‘a shrunken head’ - my best friends are fierce guardians of my self-image. They boosted my confidence, came jogging with me and tried very hard not to punch me if I order the salad in Pizza Express. I no longer have to abandon them and head off alone into the Mordor of the plus-size department when we go shopping. And if they see me even looking at anything batwinged or billowy, they’ll swoop over and call me a dickhead. Those guys.
I’m learning to choose clothes based on colour, cut, and how well they’ll go with other pieces in my wardrobe. My journey through weight gain has left me with a more hourglass shape than the one I started out with - and of course I’m older now - so I’m slowly developing a new style that’s part-preppy, part-boho, part-balconette bra glamour, and part-tummy control. The skinny jeans are definitely staying, though.
Follow Robyn on Twitter @orbyn
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.