Monday, January 5, 2009

"You're good raw material. Nice legs, great hair, and not fat. I can work with not fat."

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In a post work haze, I browsed the racks in Cue. The yards of taffeta up for grabs were immediately vetoed. Fifties dirndls, nay (these were dirndls made for a six foot model, not a five-two midget) Shiny. So much shiny.

I did find a great dress in a work-friendly grey, with some interesting detailing (tucks, grosgrain ribbon, flattering cap sleeves) - it immediately appealed.
Seeing only size 14s on the rack, and one lonely 6, I decided to go for gold and try the 6. I am usually a size 10. I was horrified to see that it fit. Awkwardly. There was some dreadful emphasis on underarm cleavage. And yet, the rest was fine. Great, even.

I have been a little down on clothes recently, shopping in places where I know what size I am, and don't have to think, or see myself in multiple full length mirrors. And rarely straying from black. I have been utterly convinced that I am now paying for years of not noticing (or caring) what or how much I eat. Don't even get me started on (my lack of) exercise. Am I one of those Skinny-fat people? Perhaps.

But ultimately I blame the labels.

In recent months I have been declared an XS, S, M, 6 - 12. Don't even get me started on jeans, which claim to be beacons of accuracy with intimidating inch measured waistbands.

I hereby declare war on sizing. This is what makes some of the most amazing people I know call themselves fat.

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