One year ago, I
moved to this country with three bags.
Three bags and a
purse, really..
Two 50 litre bags, a
small backpack with my electronics, and a wholly unnecessary, but
positively supple, jade green leather Coach purse I'd bartered with my mother for a
couple days earlier.
Before arriving at
staging in Philly I believed I had grossly over-packed.
I was so wrong. Some
people brought their entire wardrobes — in multiple pieces of
luggage large enough for me to curl up in.. I am not a petite woman.
When I packed for
life in Africa, I tried to take the harsh climate, constant walking,
the necessity of carrying my pack every time I traveled... I expected
to lose a little weight. A little. Ten pounds, tops. I packed clothes
that fit me okay, but would fit me better, I assumed, in a matter of
months.
One year and an
accumulative fifty pound weight loss later, I am struggling.. Not
with the weight loss. Whatever, I'll gain it back when I move back to
the land of the free and home of the roast beef and mayonnaise
sandwiches, tacos and craft beer...
Its the funds. I
have been buying clothes at a breakneck pace. And I cannot seem to
keep up with my metabolism, which, now six months shy of my 30th
birthday, is pretending it is in a pre-adolescent stage. I buy
clothes that are too tight. They're too big two months later.
Imagine living on a
peace corps budget. It's limited. Limit-ed. I look ridiculous with my
pants hiked up to my natural waist, held by a belt that now wraps one
and a half times around my waist. I look like a stingy penny pinching
grandma who is too cheap to buy a new pair of jeans, and doesn't care
that the fabric bunches at my nether regions. It makes me feel
positively frumpy and sexless.
And if another
person congratulates me on losing weight, I will jack them in the
throat.
Just food for
thought for the influx of 50 or so volunteers entering the country
this week.