People disregard anything I have to say about body image because I’m small. I am small in stature, small boned, you name it. I weighed 90 pounds before I got pregnant with my first child, and literally gained half my body weight during pregnancy. I joked that I looked like a hippity hop ball. Yet my ankles remained slight, and I never looked pregnant from behind. I’m thankful to have not waddled or used my boobs as a shelf. And I’m thankful I never tipped over. I do joke about the statute of limitations on losing baby weight. I recognize that I’m not overweight and have never grappled with weight issues. I am mushy in places, and at age 46, gravity has taken its toll. I’m OK with that. Well, perhaps not totally complacent, I mean I do work out. Every so often. Ahem. I once knew a woman who went to Weight Watchers after her child was born because she was a size 4 instead of her usual 0. I imagine she was pretty damn conspicuous in those meetings.
Like I said, I’m a small person. I’m not fit by any stretch so I’m the poster child for the mantra that being thin doesn’t equal being fit. Yet all we see in our society is this focus on thinness, not fitness. With or without photoshop, every fashion model out there needs to pull up a chair to Jennie Perillo’s table and savor a good meal. Or five. The gaunt waif look gracing magazine covers in the checkout aisle leaves my sons wondering why the women all look so unhealthy. I don’t look upon these figures of fashion longingly, aspiring to be like them. I enjoy my food. I indulge. I like to think I have a healthy outlook. I’m also thankful for a pretty decent metabolism, all things considered.
So here’s the thing, I still feel bad about myself. I’m hard on myself. Aren’t we all? I don’t own a scale or criticize the mushy bits that stare back at me in the full length mirror. I believe style and comfort are not mutually exclusive. I know which trends will work for my frame…palazzo pants and culottes? Um, no. I know what fits and favor certain brands above others. All this ends, of course, when it comes to jeans, bathing suits, and bras. I’ve been the same size for most of my adult life.
Imagine my surprise when I ventured into a boutique recently to check out a sale. This is the sort of place that waifs patronize, and the clerks are far more fashionable than I could hope to be. The clothes are chic, and the prices are steep. It’s the sort of place I stay away from, but the sale beckoned. I found myself lightly caressing every display, each item a veritable tactile pleasure. I strolled through the aisles, peering into rack after rack of delicate clothes and snazzy dresses. I’m a skirt and dress kind of girl so I lingered among the skirts, eventually settling on a leather circle skirt. I tried it on and, boom, delight filled my inner fashionista wannabe. It’s become a go-to that I wear with tights and ankle boots. The skirt is perfect with a crisp white shirt and cardigan or T-shirt and crop jacket. I silently apologized to this boutique for misjudging its offerings and attitudes. I was a happy customer.
But then…I was hanging up the skirt the other day and made note of the size I bought. When I tried it on there wasn’t a tag so I just grabbed a couple options and bought the one that fit. Well, the one that fit is a size large. LARGE. I don’t care that the label says large. I bought what fit comfortably. But something is awry in the fashion world (as if that’s a surprise). I’m five feet tall and just over 100 pounds (well, probably more now since Jennie was just here cooking up a storm). The clothes hanging in my closet are all size 2 or 4. Yet at this boutique I wear a large. Note that the store doesn’t sell children’s clothing so I can’t imagine who would wear the size small. Are the women who normally wear a small or medium feeling deflated when they can’t shimmy into something so obviously marked in a manner designed to kill our self esteem? Is this some sort of psychological mind game? What’s the point? It’s not just high fashion and Lululemon who perpetuate our infatuation with being skinny and devaluing women of any size other than starving. It’s insidious. So you see, size matters.