My closet spans 25 pounds, and on my five-foot-three frame, that’s five sizes of clothes. Right now I’m at my low end, swishing around New York City in a pair of navy wide-leg pants from 2017. Last week, someone did the chef’s kiss gesture as I walked by. In that moment, delighted, I realized: Holy shit, I’ve evolved. Because, unlike a decade ago, I understood that the compliment was simply for my pants, or my style, or maybe just my sunny-day swagger—not my waistline or my self-control.
As with so many of us who have such crammed closets, my brain is also very, very full. I can hum you the Molly McButter jingle from the 1980s or tell you the calorie count of a single skin-on almond, thanks to my teenage years at Weight Watchers in the 90s. I spent the aughts and 2010s working in women’s magazines, which means I definitely owe everyone an apology for the headlines that yo-yoed right alongside our cultural fluctuations, from muffin top (a Don’t) to body positivity (very much a Do).
