#58 - Oh THAT'S Where My Waist Is

Content warning: discussions of fatphobia, body image, diet culture, and eating disorders.

It’s probably more likely for me to have cried in a dressing room than not.

Whether that was because I had been wanting to cry for most of the day and finally was alone with my thoughts and my body and just needed to let it out (this was most common back in high school/college when I would go shopping with people who were blissfully unaware that the reason I only looked at bags in every store was because it was awkward to explain that no, nothing fits me in this store either), or when something didn’t fit but was in my “size”, when a “flaw” was highlighted (so fun that we break down our bodies into tiny little pieces and then give horrific names to those pieces and then begrudge them for existing—and in turn begrudge ourselves), and sometimes it was just overwhelming to be confronted with the disdain that the fashion industry has for my body. Double bonus points if the breakdown occurred in a store that allegedly was catering towards my size, nothing more fun than trying on clothes and just feeling like whoever designed them had specific animosity and REALLY thinks that every top should come with some form of ugly flair and the shoulders should have cut outs too, for sure, great choice every single time. (Please, show me any top that a cold shoulder cutout has ever enhanced.) (Also I have BRA STRAPS that are THICK and NECESSARY so like, maybe Torrid could recognize that a lot of their clientele actually want the shoulders covered for that specific purpose??) (Torrid is my ultimate enemy because it’s both ugly AND expensive, like, pick one).

It’s a fun hell to exist in this space of never wanting to call attention to myself (because if you’re fat, the messaging you constantly receive is that it’s just your fault, you monster, if you just starved yourself for a little while you could fit into the jeans in the other store like everyone else so this feels like a you problem rather than a societal one, look at all of these other girlies that have successfully rewired their brain to make food the enemy, don’t they seem happy in their low rises?) but also the stores that do cater to me can’t just be fucking normal about it.

“Thanks for shopping with us, Diva!”

“Goddess sizes available!”

And I…get what they’re trying to do here, but I’m just looking for a pair of jeans that won’t wear out in the thighs in under a month (because despite being fashion designed for plus-sizes we haven’t figured out how to reinforce the thigh area of any pair of jeans…ever apparently).

Anyway, now that I’ve ragged on the companies that are at least trying to do the bare minimum, let’s chat about the fact that I finally, finally, in like the last nine months have started to acquire a wardrobe that I not only like but love. I finally get why it always took my friends so long to get ready, they weren’t trying to psych themselves up over the one thing they had deemed acceptable to leave the house in—they were actually deciding between pieces, having fun mixing and matching and leaning into different looks and vibes and re-doing their hair because the straps actually work better with an updo for this top and maybe this jacket goes better and hang on, do they actually want to wear pants instead of a skirt? And I always just thought I was extra decisive or something, but in actuality I had years of my life where I didn’t want to go anywhere because I never felt like the clothes were right. Sometimes they were close, but the problem is, I knew enough about style, about textures, about appropriate lengths and the types of places I was being brought to, that I always knew when I had fucked it up. I think if I had been blissfully unaware and uninterested in fashion and clothes it would have been so much easier to just walk through the world, but I knew exactly how far away I was from how I wanted to appear, and it broke my heart little by little, so I retreated even more, leaned into black-on-black because it felt like armor, I could hide a little bit, it’s the New York uniform, and honestly no one really cares what you’re wearing if you’re not wearing something cool to look at anyway (that’s part of the beauty of this city for lil 'ol anxiety-ridden me, I can hide).

So first, I’ve just come to accept the limitations have little to do with me and everything to do with fatphobia and that sucks but it’s not personal. Fatphobia felt so personal for a while, especially growing up because I was deeply invested in two of…the most weight-concious sports? Like you don’t walk out of dance classes without some form of an ED tendency, usually encouraged and coached by the adults in charge, and then uh, the horse world gets to blame its fatphobia on not wanting to have anyone “too heavy” sit on the horse—which like, yeah, I don’t want to injure the animals I clearly love, but I wasn’t crushing some spindly barely 3-year-old OTTB with legs the size of toothpicks, my favorite horse was a quarter horse mix and uh, full-size adult cowboys bred those fuckers to be sturdy so why was I at 11 disappointed because how was I going to be a “great” rider if my jodhpurs didn’t lay as flat as my instructor? (Could it have been the not-so-subtle encouragements that it should look that way because the “lines” were “more appealing” what “LINES” I WAS ELEVEN AAAAHHH!!!) So now before I try on clothes I pause and actually give myself a fun little pep-talk speech about how there is no moral judgment in how well the clothes are going to fit. The numbers on the label don’t mean anything—and that includes when they get smaller. I’m still the same person I was before I tried on the clothes, so if they grab me in an area I don’t want to highlight, that’s fine, there is no moral value to size, I did not become a worse person if I gained weight and I did not become a better person if I lost some. (The pep-talk beforehand idea came from a very helpful tradition that started when my ex and I would very consciously agree via mini-speeches that we would not get frustrated or have arguments while building IKEA furniture—saying out loud “even if something goes on backward, we’ll just re-do it” works like a fucking charm!)

(It always feels…silly/embarrassing/too-human-to-be-comfortable to admit that stuff from childhood really does have the reverberations to still show up in my adult life, but hey, if the roots are rotted, the plants gonna wither and die so, finding a new pot that I actually fit in and giving myself some drainage points turned out to be really important.)

So, the clothes. It all started with jackets, because I realized that in not wanting to wear anything tucked in, I was obscuring my waist, and making my already short legs appear even shorter, which is fine if that’s what I was going for but it was decidedly not. My long torso just needed some extra structure, I needed to get over my stomach not being semi-obscured my a t-shirt (the funny thing is like, looking back, it was never providing the effect I thought it was, and I would have been creating a much better line just by tucking it in but hey, we figured it out eventually and the jackets helped lend the confidence to get there!), and I definitely needed to make sure that I was comfortable in the shoulders because having clothes that fit this body the one I am dressing and not the imaginary one in the future turned out to be a real game changer. And it’s hard when that wasn’t something I had given myself as a weird standard to get over—it was just culturally accepted advice for a while to “motivate” yourself—and honestly for me it was less about motivation and more about my laziness when it comes to making online shopping returns. Eh, may as well keep it maybe it’ll fit later, was more of my vibe around clothes. But then I had to store them, and root through them to get to the clothes that do fit, and it was honestly just an act of self-cruelty.

Then came pants that hit me just right, that looked great with the boxy t-shirts I had found that were the perfect length and didn’t create lines around the back of my bra (a miracle, so I went and bought 6 more the next time they were on sale), then the thrifted puffer coat that is absolutely by far the coolest coat I have ever owned, and I realized I loved hoodies with really thick drawstrings so that became a detail I looked out for, and I took note of hardware on things, where the seams were, if things had a raw hem, just actually taking the time to look at the construction of a garment and break down the elements of things I liked so that I could keep an eye out in the future for more things, and it grows and grows and I had to actually buy more hangers and learn to accept what my arms looked like as a neutral fact rather than a thing to “work on” because I wasn’t going to prevent myself from wearing sleeveless things anymore.

For years and years I have been a Bag Girl. Bags were my thing, I love looking at them, I adore figuring out what features I like (rolled handles 4ever), and what I realized is that when it comes to figuring out how to put together outfits now, I often start with the bag or shoes and work backward. And that has made it easier to shop, even in the thrift stores that refuse to purchase clothes in my size (in women’s clothing but GUESS WHAT they don’t care if men are broad so I still get to buy hoodies and shoes in my size, suck it Crossroads—but also like, here you can still take my money too for this cool maroon hoodie with hockey lace details), because I had a much better sense of what I was looking for. I understood the vibe of the bags and shoes I had, and what outfits could work with those. It became less emotional because I wasn’t operating from a deficit and treating it as a personal attack when I didn’t find anything. Instead, shopping has become more like a scavenger hunt. I no longer go in with a scarcity mentality, but instead, one that reminds me it was very likely there was going to be MAYBE one or two things I will actually love and want to bring home (because liking something isn’t the same as actually having the pieces necessary to wear it with or an appropriate venue to wear it to) and it’s up to me to have the patience to find those things. Also, thrifting is a gamble, and going with my friends who wear sizes that are the most produced and thriftable was a great lesson because there were plenty of times we all walked out empty-handed—some days are just better than others when it comes to the selection, that’s part of the fun and joy of thrifting!

I knew things were changing for real when it felt like I was debuting a new outfit anytime I went to hang out with my friends and got excited to see their reactions. I always thought I would shrink if looked at for too long—as if every stranger was just a hostile bully waiting to get an attack in (oooo baby did middle school really do a number on me that I ignored for far too long), but it turns out that when I feel confident, I don’t mind if people look. I want them to notice my outfit, and I hope they like it—because I sure as shit do!!

And the ripple effect of positivity went far beyond tackling the mild agoraphobia that I had been steadfastly denying for years. Wearing clothes that I finally felt represented my actual taste, style, and self caused me to stand up taller—so then my posture improved, my shoulders naturally go back and down, and that has meant that I hold far less tension in them throughout the day, I don’t wake up with a wonky neck, and I’ve stopped collapsing in on myself in an attempt to shrink and take up less space. This is the amount of space I take up, and I am a person, and it is fine for my body to exist as is. It’s not better or worse, it just is. It’s reality. I do not have to dwindle in order to be worthy of sharing space with other people. I would have been horrified if a friend told me that’s how they were feeling, so why did I allow that to be true for myself for most of my life? (Oh, is it because society reinforces fatphobia so thoroughly that it deeply affects everyone regardless of their size? Fuuuuuck thaaaat.)

Do I sometimes want to cry about how much time and mental energy I have wasted over the years hating myself? Chyeah bro, it’s fucking tragic!! I was just as worthy of love then as I am now, but I couldn’t believe it because it had never been given to me unconditionally. The messages I constantly received from everyone, everywhere, bar maybe 8 people, was that I would be easier to love if there was less of me. And my heart breaks for all of the people who told me that, because I know it came from a place deep within them that believed they were making my life “easier” by informing me. Diet culture is a trap and it eats us all, and it keeps women mentally strapped and exhausted and tired and hungry and cold all the time and idk maybe if we had better blood sugar levels we could all ban together to overthrow the patriarchy rather than enter an extreme competition with each other for the scraps of humanity that occasionally get thrown our way.

My summer wardrobe finally consisted of shorts this year. For the first time in forever, I wasn’t petrified of leaving my house the entire season because I finally found things that made me feel put together, even dare I say, cool. It’s the greatest gift I’ve ever given myself. That and the tiny fan and this anti-chafing stick that I discovered 4 years ago and now don’t leave the house without. (Also, after three years, my Birkenstocks finally broke in and no longer give me rub blisters. And the townspeople rejoiced!)

But I am pumped for my wardrobe this fall. I have even more jackets and hoodies and sweaters, I’m trying to find anything and everything that comes in emerald and chocolate brown, I got Camper boots that give me a good extra 3” and make me want to stomp around and listen to the Beastie Boys so I have affectionately christened them my Beastie Boots, all that’s missing is a crossbody bag with a really thick strap and a few going out tops because my wardrobe leans incredibly daytime. (Which is totally understandable, but part of putting myself out there in the world includes dating and bleeeehhh fine I’ll find some silky tops and buy a strapless bra, whatever.)

So, all of this has been extremely vulnerable to admit, because I felt like I had to tackle this on my own for a long time, and sharing any insecurities I had about how clothes made my body look sometimes made me feel annoying or like I was fishing for compliments or some other sin that only women commit. And I’m often given feedback that I’m good at being vulnerable, but that’s just because I have no problem exposing the soft and squishy parts of myself and crying in front of other people—but vulnerability is annoyingly defined by whatever is hardest to share, and this is the hard stuff for me. But I think it’s important to get it out there, not just because I’m happy now and I want to document the things and the people (special shoutout to Marel, my willing and wonderful fashion sherpa who graciously extends all of her knowledge, her time, and her compliments so freely) that helped me get here, but also because Thin Is In trend culture is roaring its head again and I just feel my heart splintering a little more each day when I see that the industry is once again activating the cycle of damage that will cause the current batch of teenagers a bunch of shame and encourage them to mess with their metabolisms, and it will create insecurities but then sell “fixes” back to everyone, and I just think that it’s time we move on from that. Like actually a lot of things taste better than skinny feels.

(And diet culture lies about how to effectively lose weight which is why even Oprah, who had millions of dollars at her disposal and made losing weight her thing, was never able to “keep it off”. She would gain and be sad about it, and everyone would talk about how real she was, and then she’d roll out a wagon with 60lbs of animal fat on it and talk about how great she felt in her jeans and everyone would rejoice and suddenly feel like they should restrict too, because look—this millionaire did it and denying ourselves sustenance has been coded as “having control” which means you’re a stronger and better willed person or something—and then Oprah would gain it back, and lose, gain, lose, and the cycle never stopped. And now she owns Weight Watchers, which rebranded for a hot second into WW but is now back to its former glory days of weighing everyone publically once a week and demanding that you count 1/8th of a point for every olive eaten, a definitely healthy way to look at food that won’t cause relapses in anyone who has ever struggled with counting calories.) (And, as always, fuck Noom and their “we’re not a diet we just color code ‘good’ foods as green and ‘bad’ foods as red” bullshit, I hate that Crooked Media does advertisements for them, I can’t listen to Lovett Or Leave It in the shower because WOW does hearing a bunch of dudes posture about their “unhealthy eating habits” in clearly fake bits during their commercial breaks make me super sad and if I can’t skip it, I will be forced to confront that once again, people have chosen money over the wellbeing of…humanity. Isn’t capitalism so fun??! Isn’t it wild how often diet culture pops up even in innocuous media made by ostensibly very smart people?!)

So, I’m glad I got clothes that fit. I’m glad I realized like three years ago that I had a latent fantasy that one day, month, summer, it would just happen, I would transform, it would be a whole new world of possibility through becoming thin. It was weird because I had been so blissfully unaware that I had kept that thought alive for so long. It’s like how a lot of people just kind of figure they’ll get famous one day, there are just these narratives that are given to us from the ether and actively taking ourselves out of it can feel strange, because we then have to admit it was there in the first place. But a bunch of random dudes who profit off of my insecurities don’t get to take any of my money anymore.

Who is harmed by fatphobia? Literally everyone. Yes, even thin people, who may get to use size as some form of supremacy but are still trapped within the judgemental containers of it. Who benefits from it? The Diet Industrial Complex which is just comprised of people figuring out the best ways to sell us products to “fix” our “problem areas”. So like, again, five dudes in a board room. Fuck those dudes. I am not participating in this imaginary competition that I got entered into against my will any longer than I already have.

My body isn’t a problem, it’s a fucking miracle. And it’s time I treated it as such.