In 2010, at 15 years old, I was 5'10", weighed 55 kg, and wore size 7.5 shoes. Nearly fifteen years have passed since then, and the only measurement I’ve consistently monitored is my weight. Everything else? I’ve eyeballed—much to the discomfort of my feet and the regret of every ill-fitting piece of clothing I’ve bought. The reason I tracked my weight was simple: I went from a 55 kg stick figure to a 95 kg balloon, and now I resemble a dehydrated fish at 70 kg. 

Over the years, I’ve cycled through sizes: medium, large, extra-large. There was even a brief contemplation of double XL. Then, in 2021, a family tragedy pushed me into an unexpected weight-loss journey. Grief propelled me to walk 10,000 steps a day, and slowly, the kilos—and tears—came off. Some tears were from the grief, but many were from my feet, which screamed in pain. I ignored them, chalking it up to my refusal to spend more than Rs 3,000 on shoes. 

I didn’t want to pay a heavy price, but my feet certainly did. Working from home since the second lockdown meant that I rarely had to venture out, and why wear shoes when you're in pyjamas all day? But when I did step out in my beloved size 8 Chuck 70s, the laces always came loose, and my feet would be left with blisters and numbness that, to this day, hasn't fully disappeared. It seems incredibly stupid, I know. But with everything happening around me, the sensation of foot-binding didn’t feel like a priority. It just wasn’t as painful as other things at the time. 

It wasn’t until a 2 am conversation at a bar in Mumbai that I realiesd how absurd the whole thing had been. My friend’s date, perhaps more sympathetic to my horizontally stretched Chucks than to me, casually mentioned I might have been wearing the wrong size shoe all along. A lightbulb went off in my head: ‘Have I been wearing the wrong size this whole time?’ I wondered. I kept the thought to myself, not wanting to disrupt the drunken Dumb Charades happening in front of me, and, frankly, because I didn’t want to be the subject of bullying at 2 am on a weekday. 

A reasonable person would’ve bought a bigger pair the very next day. But what reasonable person wears size 7.5 shoes for ten years and only reluctantly switches to size 8, thinking ‘Maybe these will feel better’? Spoiler: They didn’t. It took another full year before I finally stepped into a UK-size 9.5 shoe, albeit reluctantly. Part of me had always assumed that footwear was supposed to hurt—don’t they show that in the movies? And I thought shoes were supposed to fit snugly, like a second skin. It wasn’t until I started reading about sneakers that I learned otherwise: your toes should actually have some breathing room in your shoes. 

This epiphany, however, came a little too late. My toes now look slightly deformed, and the nails on my pinky toes have fallen off, grown back, and withered again. All because I spent nearly 30 years in the wrong size. Sadly, my feet weren’t the only part of me living a lie. Since I was 15, I’ve confidently told people I’m 5’10", and 5’11" on dates. But after a weekend of intense, home-style body measurement (which involved three mirrors, a tape measure, and some awkward angles), I discovered I’ve actually been 183 cm all along. That’s 6’0.5", to be exact. Of course, I’ll still round up to 6'1"—why stop now? 

While the height revelation wasn’t as physically painful as the shoe debacle, it has been costly in its way. Over the years, I’ve collected wardrobes of all sizes, from mediums that now feel like compression wear to XLs that could double as parachutes. Even today, with my current dehydrated-fish physique, the struggle continues. A size L t-shirt feels too wide but fits perfectly in length, while a size M hugs just right but rides up too short. I’ve got closets full of XL shirts gathering dust, and souvenirs from my balloon days. 

Then there’s my pants journey. If there’s one thing that’s more annoying than ill-fitting shirts, it’s ill-fitting pants. There was a time I had to almost enlist an entourage to help me into size 34 jeans, which wasn’t so much an act of dressing as it was an athletic event. And now? I’m floating in size 31s. I suppose I could donate those bigger clothes to charity, but part of me is holding onto them for when I inevitably mess this whole thing up again. You never know when the balloon might return. 

But for now, at least I’ll be standing comfortably in my UK size 9. Or is it 9.5? Fuck.