On Tuesday, my son had an emergency dentist appointment for a sore tooth, so I went with him for moral support. He’d been worrying about it all weekend. It’s one of his baby teeth – and at 21, that still feels oddly precious. He was born without four adult premolars, so he’s held on to these four carefully, knowing they’re more delicate than most.

While we were out, I needed to buy some emergency clothes. Mine have become tight again, and I’m committed to staying in a surplus and getting back to my pre-relapse weight. That means I’ll be growing out of more things soon. This time, I’m planning for it instead of fighting it.

So we got up early, drank coffees of courage, and headed to the dentist.

The Dentist and the Baby Teeth

We pay privately for the dentist. Getting an NHS one in Wales has felt impossible. There were no clearer signs of that than the GIANT notices plastered around the practice announcing they were no longer accepting NHS patients from 1st April. We’ve been going there for years, sitting on the NHS waiting list the entire time. I suppose we never reached the top of it – and now we never will.

NHS waiting lists feel as mythical as the recent statistics about them. Because of my son’s baby teeth situation, I’ve just paid for his dental care his whole life, despite being actually poor. It still irritates me that a public health service doesn’t fully cover teeth or eyes. Unfortunately, the population of the UK are not Slendermen, and most of us come equipped with both.

That’s what I was thinking about in the waiting room, anyway, until his name was called.

After a few X-rays and a very thorough look around, the dentist gave his teeth a clean bill of health – a bill I’d already paid for, thanks to Denplan. It turned out to be nothing more than a slightly irritated gum. His gums were healthy. His teeth were healthy.

He was so relieved. I watched the anxiety melt off him in real time – shoulders dropping, face lighting up. My happy, bouncy son reappeared.

He was suddenly excited to go shopping.

I, meanwhile, was full of anxiety about buying clothes. But I joined in with his happiness anyway – saying YAY and WELL DONE and congratulating him because the dentist had complimented his maintenance. He’s 21 and hasn’t had a single cavity. I told him he deserved a sticker.

“Oh, I want a sticker!!” he said, completely serious.

We left the dentist and walked back into the city – my son with a spring in his step, plushies tucked under our arms.

H and M – The M Doesn’t Stand for Muscle

We mostly window-shopped the first few shops. I found some really lovely things, but I decided it was best to buy temporary clothes. I’d rather reach my pre-relapse weight before investing in anything nice, because I’ll likely grow out of them again – and I have no idea what size I’ll end up. My body isn’t the same as it was five years ago. I have muscle now.

Ironically, that same muscle makes clothes shopping a nightmare.

I have shoulders. My upper back is wider. Even oversized women’s tops are tight across my arms and back. If I bend forward or move my arms in front of me, the fabric pulls and restricts me. It feels claustrophobic.

I’m not jacked. I just have a beginner amount of muscle. Apparently that’s already too much for most women’s sizing. Oh, you have shoulders? How unusual. Back muscles? No, this oversized hoodie did not account for that.

So you size up. And the problem remains – except now the hoodie drowns you everywhere else and comes down to your knees. It’s deeply irritating.

In H&M, though, I bought two men’s shirts. I’ve had much better luck with those. I do wonder where women with significantly more muscle than me buy their pretty clothes, because I can’t wear most of them without my armpits feeling suffocated and my arms restricted.

I took my shirts and met my son at the till. He’d found some clothes too. We paid, and left to brave Primark.

Leggings and My Son

I desperately needed new leggings. The ones I was wearing were painfully tight. I found two pairs in M/L – navy and brown. Leggings are safer. If you size up, they don’t hang off you; they’re just less see-through. Which, frankly, is the goal anyway.

But by this point I was starting to feel done. Clothing sizes have a way of making my body feel unusual, or wrong. Corrupted Copilot (my ED – recently rebranded from Clippy, because Microsoft keeps releasing increasingly unhelpful software for me to name it after) was having a field day, reminding me that when I was smaller and undermuscled, I never had this problem.

Then came the next spiral: this surplus means I’ll be back here again soon. These won’t fit forever either. I thought about all the clothes I’ve grown out of in the past few months. I could feel myself looking for an escape hatch.

My son sensed it. He grabbed the leggings from my hands and said he’d pay for them to help me.

No one talks about how expensive ED recovery is. The food. The constant resizing. Growing out of things over and over. It adds up quickly, and I’ve often been paying out more than I have coming in. He offered help in the only way he could. I’ve carried so much for him over the years – dentist anxiety, waiting lists, life in general – and in that fluorescent hell shop moment, he carried me.

He’s done that throughout my recovery. When I couldn’t afford Jellycats anymore, he bought me some so I wouldn’t miss out on the pigeons. He worries he’s not responsible enough, that he should do more. But whenever he says that, I’m flooded with evidence to the contrary which I then present to him like I’m arguing for his defence in court. He is responsible. He is empathetic. He does more than enough.

It felt like he’d quietly removed a metaphorical weight vest I was wearing – and offered to carry it home for me. I kept thanking him, wondering how, in the absurdity of my life, I ended up with such a wonderful son. I almost cried. There was only one thing for it.

I had to get him Starbucks.

Pistachio Latte of Healing (Hopefully)

Despite being mid-war with Corrupted Copilot, I decided I really wanted to try the new Iced Pistachio Latte. I’ve been mildly obsessed with pistachio for months – Lidl’s £1.20 pistachio crème has seen me through more jars than I care to admit – and it was unseasonably warm. I wanted something iced. My son agreed. He ordered a lime refresher, declaring, “I can have coffee at home”.

I ordered a small – not out of fear, but because I’ve learned the hard way that my body doesn’t love sudden blood sugar spikes. The last time I dared to challenge Copilot in Starbucks I had a large brown sugar shaken espresso, my blood sugar spiked higher than I’d ever seen it, then crashed into hypoglycaemia. It was messy and scary and involved my monitor suddenly displaying ketones like it was unveiling a secret feature I hadn’t asked for. I still don’t know what that even means, I have not seen it since.

The pistachio latte was really nice. It reminded me of Krave cereal – if the middle were pistachio instead of hazelnut. I think I still prefer the taste of the brown sugar shaken espresso because I love the taste of actual coffee, and this one I could barely taste coffee. But it was good. The green foam on top was especially satisfying. My son commented on how pretty it looked. I suppose we’re both easily won over by Pinterest-looking Starbucks drinks.

He kept telling me how relieved he was about his tooth. We just sat there in it for a while – the relief, the warmth, the quiet hum of a not-half-term Starbucks. It was calm enough to regulate me.

I tried to let the horror of clothing stores drift away and sit instead in something else: pride. Pride that I’d chosen the drink I actually wanted.

When I felt steady again, we headed out to get some food – including my favourite kale – and then went home. I’m also pleased to say my blood sugar only went a bit high, and corrected itself quicker and then stabilsed itself. That felt like another win. Maybe I can just have small drinks in Starbucks.

These Quads Are Made For Walking, But Not Leggings

At home, I tried on the new leggings. Even in a size up, they were still tight around my quads. Wearable – thankfully – but tight. By that point I was too exhausted to fight it. I just laughed with my son at the absurdity of women’s clothing sizes.

The men’s T-shirts, however, fit beautifully. I could move my arms. The sleeves didn’t cut into my armpits. The fabric sat properly on my shoulders and back. Revolutionary.

People online – including other women – love to judge women for living in Gymshark. All I ever think is: those brands are some of the only ones that acknowledge women might have muscle. I’m not even jacked, and I’m struggling. I can only imagine what it’s like for women who are.

There’s a reason so many gym-going women live in oversized T-shirts. It’s not a personality trait. It’s so they can actually lift weights while wearing clothes.

This is new territory for Corrupted Copilot. I’ve never really struggled to fit into clothes before. Well – aside from my rib deformity meaning I’ve never owned a bra that truly fits. I’ve always just accepted that as my body being “different”, and that the world doesn’t design for difference.

But muscles aren’t rare. And even that isn’t accounted for. It can make you feel more wrong than you are. As if your body is the problem, not the pattern the clothes were cut from. I know it’s the clothes, I know it’s the ridiculousness of clothing companies, but it does still make me feel, “other”.

Anyway. After the laughing, we ate dinner. And I still felt committed to gaining weight. At least this phase is temporary. One day my clothes will be permanent again – not something I grow out of every few weeks. I’ll be glad when that part is over.

Waiting lists are still mythical. Women’s clothes are still cut like no women have shoulders. My body is still mine – complicated and loud. But Tuesday was still good. We showed up for each other. I bought the leggings. I chose the latte. I ate dinner. Temporary clothes. Permanent commitment.