giving away old jeans

this is the skinniest i've ever seen you, she says, as we stand in my office. i lean against my desk, feel the sharp edge grate against the bones in my hip and enjoy the uncomfortableness of the conversation -- my posture.
even last year? i ask, without any clear vision of the way i've looked at any time of my life. i've given her a full bag of old pants that i've decided i don't or won't wear enough to merit keeping stuffed into my already overflowing closet. they're all several sizes too big for me, and i can't remember if they were always too large or if i've suddenly started to slim down.
you're really much skinnier, she says -- looking at me over the tops of her glasses -- her eyes thinned out by judgment, by her nature of asking too many questions.
i mumble something about eating, knowing full well i've done nothing but drink hot tea and coffee all day long. i wonder if i'll get to the gym later and if the trips to the bar that will happen later in the week will put a dent on my apparent change of shape.
i think i look the same, i manage to say out loud as i'm walking out of the office to stand in front of a room full of students -- after a few steps i hear her voice trailing after me -- but what do you see? she calls . . . what do you see. i look at my shoes as i run down the stairs -- now late to teach my own class -- and decide that my jeans will be tighter -- will fit just right after the next round in the dryer.