A note to self: stop buying clothes that don’t fit
I’m forever squeezing myself into clothes that don’t really fit me, just for the sake of a number
I’m from the UK and clothes sizes go like this: 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16 and so on. In my head, that translates to: 6 (really, really slim), 8 (really slim), 10 (slim), 12 (bit curvy), 14 (curvy), 16 (very curvy), and so on.
Ever since I was a teenager, I have verged between sizes 12, 14 and 16 depending on the brand of the clothes and the fit of each item, although for one very brief period when I was 17 and eating an incredibly restrictive diet, I bought clothes in a size 10. A 10 is a bit of a dream for me. A 12 is a good day and a 14 is normal.
But somehow, a 14 seems a bit humiliating. In my head at least (and backed up by my mum’s beliefs) a 14 is where being fat starts. I wish I was a consistent size 12, and if I breathe in enough and maybe if I shop in the morning when I haven’t eaten anything, I can buy things in a 12. A 12 is acceptable in my family. My mum sometimes buys a size 12 if she wants something to be “roomy” (she’s a consistent 10, if not an 8 these days). But come the afternoon, clothes in a 12 feel tight and uncomfortable for me.
So why do I keep doing it to myself?
Why do I keep buying clothes that don’t actually fit me?
Let me give you some examples. When I was 20 my mum got remarried. I was at university and suffering from late-night takeaways and lots of alcohol and was at my heaviest. In reality, I was a size 16. But I couldn’t admit this to myself, or to my mum. So I squeezed into a size 14 bridesmaid dress (that I hated) and told myself that I would lose weight before the final fitting.
Guess what happened? I didn’t lose any weight and when the final fitting came, the dress wouldn’t zip up, no matter how hard I tried to breathe in. In the end, the woman in the shop had to cut out a panel at the back and lace it to create a corset that could be closed up around my bulk. I felt like a Victorian prostitute and I felt uncomfortable in the dress for the whole day. Why did a number matter more than feeling comfortable? The whole process was excruciatingly embarrassing.
Around the same time, I bought a dress for our end-of-year prom. I bought it in a size 14, even though my boobs were literally bursting out of it and I spent the whole evening feeling outrageously aware of my bosom, again feeling like a Victorian prostitute.
If I can fit into something that is a more acceptable size, I somehow feel as though I am cheating myself, or letting myself down if I buy the bigger size, even though the bigger one is more comfortable. I did this recently when I bought a new winter puffer coat. I tried on the 12 and it just about fit. The 14 was really comfortable, but I felt that it was a bit baggy and potentially made me look bigger than I really am. So I bought the 12. Now the coat is practically unwearable for periods of more than 30 minutes as I find that it is so tight that it compresses my chest and it sticks out over my belly anyway, probably making me look worst than if I’d just bought the bigger, baggier size in the first place. It’s £100 down the drain for the sake of a number.
So that’s it. I’m not doing it anymore. I refuse to buy another uncomfortable item of clothing just because I wish I were a size smaller than I truly am. What does it matter anyway? It’s just a number and in one shop that might look different to another.
Isn’t it more important to be comfortable? Isn’t it more important to accept the way I look and embrace it, rather than constantly putting this pressure on myself to lose weight to fit into something, even though that’s never really going to happen? Isn’t it time that I accepted that I’m a size 14, and that’s just my natural body shape and form?
I eat well and I exercise, but I don’t obsess about calories anymore and I would rather that and be a 14 than constantly restricting myself to get to that dream goal of 10.
