Behind The Stall Door

I wrote this back in 2011 after having an aha moment in a dressing room stall.  After reading over it again, it still rings true, so I wanted to share it with you.  I still look for that holy grail pair of jeans in boyfriend cuts, straight leg, and skinny.  I still have to drag myself kicking and screaming to the gym and remind myself moderation is the key to a healthy lifestyle when I want to have pie for dinner and cake for dessert.  Every person, male or female, age notwithstanding, has had an issue with some part of their body or lifestyle, whether it be fitness or nutrition.  We are all human.  God made me with a sweet tooth and a short, curvy body and I know he didn’t make me to love chocolate if he didn’t mean for me to have it every once in a while.  The point being, we ALL deal with the same issues in different capacities.  Know that you aren’t alone and enjoy!

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Since men don’t realize what goes on in the dressing room, and other women don’t realize they aren’t the only ones that go through this same process, I have decided to make it public.  Welcome to what happens behind the stall door.

I’d rather go for my yearly physical exam than go shopping for jeans.  I’d rather go bathing suit shopping than go shopping for jeans.  I’d rather go to walmart and be chained to a bench inside for 10 hours than to go shopping for jeans.  On the totem pole of life, jeans shopping is amongst the slime and disgust of the ground floor.  They all fit differently!  All of them!  Size doesn’t mean anything when you walk across the hall from Gap to Nordstrom.  28 or 6 or 12 or 5 or 31 or 22?  Short, regular, long.  Indigo, distressed, jegging, stretch, don’t wash for a year?…what?  It’s like ordering a coffee from Starbucks.


I cannot resist to try on every pair that I come across hoping to find my holy grail pair, and then buy them in every wash, no matter the price.  When I was in high school, I was a stick with no bumps or curves.  Let’s just say the opposite is now.  For years I wished I could fill out a pair of jeans, now I wish my filling was more proportionate to the actual jean pattern.. I digress.


Ann Taylor LOFT made me tickled pink when I found their petite tailored jeans on sale.  I always roll my eyes as I grab a pair of jeans and head to the dressing room, but as I mentioned earlier, I cannot resist.  With oodles of hope swelling inside of me, I unhooked the jeans from the hanger and purposefully avoided the mirror as I slid the denim over my feet and up my gams.  Reaching thigh level I didn’t have to tug, and with a tilt of my head and the raising of my right eyebrow I continued on.  Slight jolt and jump up as the tag reaches my crack.  Darn, I wore a thong today.  How is it that the manufacturer of all companies likes to put the tag conveniently in a place that will slide right up no sunshine territory?  Each time i get “tagged” I make a mental note to remember to never let that happen again.  Pulling the tag away from my hindparts and getting the jeans over the lady lump and then on to the biggest question of them all, are they going to button without pain, procedure, or horizontal posture???  YES!!

As I let out a breath I realize I had been holding since thigh level, I slowly turned to face the mirror.  Well, I be damned.  Then I rotate the bottom half of me so I can see my rumpus and make sure it looks good, not too snug as to get those stress lines on the back of my thighs, check, squatting down ever so slightly to make sure no evidence of crack would appear, check, noting the point the hem hits the floor so I can wear flats without tearing them up, check.

As I squeal with delight, my friend hears me and deduces which stall I am in, because apparently my voice is notable and distinguishable amongst other women.  “They fit!!” I proclaim.

As I’m on a roll, I might as well try on the top I brought in here as well.  Now let me tell you, I am a sucker for button down shirts.  For some reason, I adore them.  I own more than enough of them.  Most of them I can’t even wear.  Why?  Well, as of recent I learned that if my chest grows any larger Victoria’s Secret will no longer be able to retain my business as they do not make any sizes bigger than the one I am at now.  I’ve hit the glass ceiling girls.  And to think, I prayed for these things all through middle and high school.  It’s either sports-bras-R-us, or diet diet diet to kill the curves, or (gasp) wear the bland nude colored ones that you used to make fun of and put on your head as a child while walking through the department store with your mother.  While I express this endowment as tragic, it most certainly is not, I am thankful for my wonderful assets, but I do curse up and down and all over as I’m trying to button each one of my button down shirts.

Thank you Ann Taylor LOFT, I realized as I put on a size SMALL PETITE button down shirt with room to spare that I am still quite tiny as a woman, I’m just gynormous as a girl.  This knowledge could have prevented some mental breakdowns and tears shed while trying on larges in Forever XXI and American Eagle.  More happy squeals emerge from my stall and my friend giggles again as she is also having success and celebrating in her stall on her end of the dressing room.

Here’s the thing to remember, size is only a number, it’s how it fits that determines how people look at you and how you look at yourself most importantly.  Know your body, know your age, shop appropriately.  I’m 5’2″ therefore I need petite or I will butcher a hemline, for I do not need 34″ of length.  Yes, I’m happy that I fit in a size S because I had been torturing myself for being a L to XL in a store that sells to girls who aren’t old enough to receive their curves.  I’m not large, and there is no reason for me to torture myself over a tag.  The only reason to torture myself is getting winded after climbing three flights of stairs.  That’s legitimate, know the difference.

It took a 40% off sale for me to get a good kick in the butt, but that red bag gave me much more than 2 pairs of jeans and a button up shirt that closes without screaming for help.  It gave me PERSPECTIVE.


–Now go to the gym and make sure you have dessert after dinner tomorrow.  Enjoy yourself.

♥xo Kathryn



You’ve heard, “what would you do if you could not fail?”

Well, what would you do?

I moved to Richmond on a whim, basically.  I got the idea into my head and I ran with it.  Usually when I want something, it comes on quickly and I act upon it immediately.  The day I got my nose pierced I just woke up and said, I want to get a nose ring, therefore I went.  The first time I moved out as an adult (which is a joke, because an 18 year old should not be qualified as an adult looking back on it, I was soooo not qualified to live on my own) was swift as well.  I want something and I start a plan of attack and I go for it.  I usually dive in feet first and worry about the rest as it comes.  I am like that with everything, except for my dreams.  Fear.  Fear gets me each time I stick a toe into the water.  The ‘but, what if’ might drown me.

Moving to a new city, making new friends, getting a new job, letting a perfect stranger stab a needle through my nostril… those things do not scare me in the slightest.  Starting this blog, showing my friends my Instagram account, writing, dating and getting married, embracing who I am and what I really want… fear beyond comprehension.

At least I have put a foot into the water, but I’m still swimming as well as a cat.

What would you do?

What is the dream that God placed in your heart?  What do you think about each day?  What would you do if you could not fail?

Don’t quit your daydream.

♥xo Kathryn

Mother’s Day

I don’t necessarily look like my mother.  By necessarily, I mean not at all.  When I was very little I even asked her, upon several occasions, to admit that I was adopted so that we could get it out in the open and move along.  I was a 30 year old going on 6.  Nay, she would never admit it, because she indeed carried me for almost 10 months (she claims 9 months is entirely inaccurate) and bore me as naturally natural gets (which was her decision, not mine, I totally would have taken the drugs..).  So much to my amazement, the older I get, the more I am turning into her.  I still look nothing like her, but the mannerisms, speech, hand movements, and hobbies are all aligning into twin-like status.  Since today is Mother’s Day, I’ll share a slice of our twinning heaven.

Growing up I had a big bone to pick with my mother.  I would frequently (and I mean VERY FREQUENTLY) go into the kitchen to make a snack or a drink and I would open drawer after drawer looking for spoons, a napkin, a glass, what have you, wherever it was last night, it was no longer in the rightful place.  This DROVE ME NUTS.  I mentioned many times over that we needed a label maker so that she could label the new places instead of me constantly opening cabinets and drawers in a fury trying to find a damn fork.  It should not be a treasure hunt to make a glass of tea, was my thinking.

Enter present day:  here I am, sitting contorted on my couch because there is no room for me to be on it right now.  There are books and knick knacks splayed all around me.  My apartment, each area, from kitchen to bathroom, looks trashed.  If someone walked in on me right now they would assume I’ve been robbed.  No.  Alas, I am just my mother.  I am supposed to be sitting down watching “It’s Complicated” and enjoying a glass of iced coffee I made for myself.  What am I doing instead of relaxing on my Sunday off?  I am reorganizing, very indecisively I might add, my entire apartment.  How did this happen you ask?  Well, I was sitting here perfectly content on my couch until I looked over to my right at the end table and thought, you know, this just doesn’t look right.  So then I started moving things around on it.  That spilled over to the coffee table, because IT DOESN’T LOOK RIGHT EITHER.  This becomes a problem when I run to the bathroom to return a bottle of nail polish that was on the coffee table and I start moving things around on my vanity and then stop to rearrange things on the dresser in my bedroom.  Read:  I am TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY, my mother.  It is embarrassing to say just how many times I have “re-styled” the open shelving in my kitchen.  I especially do it under duress, but like today, it’s just because.  Because I just felt an itch in my soul to move every single item I own to a different spot.

It is times like these that I am in awe of what we inherit from our parents.  Things that are built in, remaining dormant until God needs you to tilt your head to the side and say to yourself, “wow, I made fun of her all of those years, and now I have to say, gosh, I understand mom.”

I sent my mother a text earlier letting her know that I’m paying tribute in the best way I know how, by rearranging everything in sight.  And dernit, I better never have a daughter, lest no one will ever be able to find a spoon.

Love you Momma.


♥xo Kathryn