Shut up, already.

I am something of a clothes horse, a fact adroitly proclaimed by my colorized closet.
When I shop, which I do far more frequently than my current economic statues would seem to allow, I always go for the 'M' and the 'L'.
For some reason, my self image is that of a rather plump person. I have been that, from time to time, it's true.
The other day, I was browsing the sale racks at Kohl's, where I found two items I liked very well, in size 'S.' I bought them without trying them on.
They fit.
I stood in silent wonder, staring into my mirror at home.
"If I am an 'S', I said to my reflection, "then my clothing options have expanded exponentially."
You see, I keep the clothes I like, even when they do not fit, because they are likely to fit again at some point in the future. (Do you suppose Oprah keeps all of her various sizes as she grows and shrinks?) All these tiny clothes are boxed up on the top of my overstuffed closet.
Or, were, until today.
This morning I am wearing a pair of pants, size 5. I bought them on sale at WalMart, (where all the classy people shop), years ago. They have hung in my closet, unused as a sign of hope. They are simple and unusually well-made, for WalMart. I heart them.
I am looking in the mirror this morning almost as frequently as my teen aged son. I am not nearly as delighted with the reflection, as I am with the number on my tag.
5. Who wears a 5? American girls under the age of 14, or Chinese adult women. Or, maybe Kara.
Who's annoyingly proud of herself?

I don't know about you, but I think this means that I should go shopping for some new clothes. To add to my closet. Because I am an 'S.'
Ok, I'll shut up now.