Buried at the bottom of my chest of drawers is a pair of cropped, straight leg, designer jeans I bought years ago. Every so often, I get them out, put them on, get depressed at how tight they are over my hips and bum, and put them back in the drawer. I can’t bring myself to get rid of them because they feel like some sort of totem – that to ditch them would be to accept that I will never fit comfortably into them again, and somehow, I have failed.
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