I love clothes. Loved them all my life. My mother’s clothes. Anybody’s clothes. Hell, even doll clothes. I come from a long line of clothing-loving women, and my daughter continues the line. Clothes can express the full range of human emotions, from joy to despair. And sometimes they can be the cause of those emotions.
Now, I am not built like a model. Quite the opposite. Over the years (nearly 60 of them, so far), I have acquired quite a bit of baggage. Quite a bit. Hmmmm. Hell, I’m fat. There, got that over with.
Not only am I fat, I am short and hourglass-shaped. With a bust. But that said, I still love clothes, and I love my own clothes best.
Of course, the problem is to dress this unfashionable, aging body in such a way that it appears to best advantage, and suits my age and dignity - without dressing like a proverbial “old lady”. (More on old-lady dressing in another blog – it ain’t what you think it is.)
There are several problems operating here. The human body is not standardized. Even those who do not have a weight problem differ greatly from one another in their proportions. These differences become exaggerated as one gains weight. Some, like myself, are relatively fortunate in that their weight is evenly distributed, so that they remain more or less proportional. Others put it all on in the upper body, or solely in the stomach or the butt – etc, etc.
However, fashions are designed for one particular set of proportions. The emphasis shifts over time, but during any particular historical period only certain figure types are considered fashionable and acceptable. The rest of us have to scramble to fit in as best we can. Many times I wished I had lived in the 1870’s. Short waisted, full-busted, hourglass, with a mass of drapery behind – just made for me. Instead what happens? I get plunked down in an era dominated first by Twiggy, and from then on by models whose legs are longer than my entire body. Life is not fair, but I do the best I can.
The other problem – and nobody ever talks about this one – is that the heavier one gets, the probability increases of looking silly. Laughable, ludicrous, undignified – silly. Oh, dear. There is also an age factor here. For generations people have laughed at the woman of a certain age who is trying to dress like her daughters. Standards have muddled nowadays, and in fact sometimes my clothes are very much like my almost thirty year old daughter’s, but there are lines that should not be crossed.
Let me explain. My ex-husband had a useful term for certain types of outfits – “clown suits”. Clown suits, according to him, are outfits that a man might find interesting-looking on another woman, but wouldn’t want to see his wife wearing them. I think we all know a true clown suit when we see one. However, on the heavy person, a garment that is simply “cutting edge” can become absurd.
This is not to say that I do not think a heavy woman should not try to express herself with her clothing. On the contrary! Push the envelope! Just, for heaven’s sake, look in the mirror first. Really look. Turn around and look at the back side as well. Set aside the fact that at that moment you LOVE that garment, and your whole heart and being cry out to own it. Try to put yourself in the mindset of someone who is watching you walk down the street in that outfit. Look at the proportions. Do you look balanced? Do you look like you have legs, or are you a mushroom? Does it make your butt look enormous? Does it look like it should come with batteries? Remember – every fault that an outfit has will be exaggerated in a larger size.
Clothes are culture. Clothes are how people see themselves, and how they want others to see them. Clothes are self expression, whether intentional or not. Clothes are candy.
