I love my body–I’m probably the most body-confident person I know. I think I’m beautiful. I think my body is shapely. I look like I belong in a painting (of some goddess or other.) I really, really like my body. My body image is SUPER high. But that doesn’t stop me from envying smaller women.
When I do shop for clothing, I generally shop used stores. They’re economically sensible, environmentally sound, and you don’t have to end up dressed like everybody else. But invariably, I’ll find some gorgeous skirt or dress, and pull it out to discover that it’s a size 4. Most of the cute clothes at the used stores I frequent are in smaller sizes. My size clothes tend to have elastic segments on their waistbands and silly furbelows here and there.
Even if I weren’t shopping used stores, I’d still find shopping difficult. You see, my beautiful bod is somewhere between a size eight and a size fourteen. I can wear size 8 bottoms–as long as the designer was so good as to put a long enough zipper in it that the waist will fit over my hips and as long as the crotch is long enough that I can actually get the waist up to my natural waist and as long as the bottoms are long enough to fit my really long legs. Otherwise, I might wear up to a size fourteen–which will be held up by my hips, while the overlarge crotch bags between my legs and the enormous hip space sags on either side. Even a size fourteen may not be long enough–they’re generally longer because they sit lower on my waist, but even then I can’t wear heels with them. Because despite what magazine advertisements might lead you to believe, clothing is not made for tall, shapely women.
Shirts are even more difficult, because my bust is large while my waist is small–and because I’m tall. That means that if I buy a shirt that fits my bust, it makes me look like a frump because it’s made for a woman with belly fat (which I don’t have). If I buy a shirt that fits my waist, I look like a tart–because it’s not made for a person with a large bosom. Which brings up another issue. If I wear a high neckline, it’s like putting on a sign–“Look at my big breasts.” If I wear a lower neckline (scooped, vee, square, etc.), it’s like “Whoops, there’s cleavage.” The large bust and my tall frame also means that most shirts are WAY too short–showing off my belly button and that little waist. I solve both problems by wearing wife beaters under my clothes–they cover at the top and extend down past the bottom. But wife beaters aren’t exactly professional dress, if you know what I mean. Which leaves me in a bit of a predicament.
So, while I love my body, I often look enviously at the petite little things with only the slightest curves. I see them clicking down the street in a fitted pantsuit and heels and think “Wouldn’t I love to be you.” Imagine wearing a suit that fit my bust, my waist, and my hips simultaneously. Imagine wearing slacks that were long enough that I could wear heels with them without looking silly. Imagine having extra fabric to take in instead of having to leave behind the jacket because the arms were too short–and there wasn’t any extra fabric to lengthen them with.
I almost have the body of a model–tall, thin, large breasts. I say almost because my breasts are natural and my BMI is actually healthy (as opposed to the “standard” model’s 17 or so–which is underweight and associated with increased morbidity and mortality). But the world that sets up an unrealistic standard for most girls to aim for fails to accommodate for the standard. Where are the clothes for tall, thin, busty women? They don’t exist.
My body’s beautiful, but it just doesn’t fit into any of the preconceived notions of sizes. And sometimes, just sometimes, I wish it did. Imagine going into a store and buying something without trying it on. Imagine only trying on five items before finding one that fit.
I purchased eight articles of clothing at the used store today. I tried on over a hundred. I tried on twenty suit jackets and didn’t find one that had arms long enough for me. Almost 50 skirts and only four made the cut. I’m pleased with my purchases–four skirts, 3 dresses, and a suit set. I’m happy with the two belts, the purse, and the pair of shoes (wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles) that I bought to accompany them. I only paid $27 for the twelve items. But I spent almost three hours feverishly trying on clothing–completely breaking the rules by taking in 30 or 40 items each time I went into the dressing room. I dressed in seconds–and generally could spot the error within seconds as well. Bosom too tight. Skirt slips over hips. Skirt won’t slip over hips to get it on. Arms not long enough. Designed for a big bellied woman. I’ve developed the skill of maniac dressing–I can try on an item and determine that it won’t do within 30 seconds. But 3 hours of 30 second try-ons is a lot of time for eight items. Perhaps you see my predicament.
I’m cheating on my time-stamp and marking when I began rather than when I ended this post. It’s really Wednesday’s post, which I thought about throughout Wednesday afternoon and evening and began in the evening–even though it is currently 12:30 on Thursday morning.