Yesterday was an emotional day. After years of dropping serious cash into the registers of Macy's Plus size department, I bid it farewell for what I hope and pray is the last time.
It's a strange feeling to leave the comfort of the plus size world - especially where shopping is concerned. For my entire adult life I have been shopping among the familiar racks of Macy's Women's department and Lane Bryant (when it still resided in the Lehigh Valley Mall) and knew exactly where to find "my clothes." When you're 5' tall and weight upwards of 240 (252 at my highest...*gulp*), pickings are slim (even if your body is not) and you get used to the hunt to find clothing that perhaps not necessarily flatters, but rather doesn't make you look like the beached whale you perceive yourself to be. When you essentially have one store at your disposal (because you absolutely, positively HAVE to try things on - ordering online would be certain death), it's a long and arduous process, complete with anger, frustration, and disgust. And maybe a little sweating. And let's be honest, cursing.
Shopping, especially within the past 5 or so years, as I climbed to my heaviest weight, was hardly an enjoyable experience. I spent a LOT of money on clothing that I didn't exactly love, but felt was the best I could do, given the state of my round, squat shape. It's infuriating how expensive plus size clothing is as well. Sure, I tried shopping the sale racks - but who needs short sleeve tropical prints and white jean shorts when it's almost Christmas?
I've known for the last few weeks that I needed to go shopping, as I shrank out of my ass-grabbing tight tailored 18W pants quite a while ago. Luckily(?), the global warming every Republican's been denying exists, found us with an unseasonably warm October and early November, allowing me to extend the lifespan of my cropped stretchy pants that I've been wearing since before my surgery. It was ok for a while, but as the weeks fly by, I found myself hiking up my drawers more times than I cared to, and finally ended up overlapping the waistband and securing them with the world's largest safety pin. The writing was on the wall. Get thee to the mall... STAT.
I'll admit that I'm a shopper at heart. Even though I switched careers to become a teacher, my inner fashion diva has never left my soul. Her voice had been squelched over the years with each pound gained through my adulthood. She was essentially on life support, trying desperately to survive, but the odds were against her. The bigger I got, the less options there were for me to choose from, and the less she could assert herself. Do you know how many hideous prints are offered to the plus size community? It's staggering. I mean, we draw enough attention to ourselves with our size, now we have to decorate ourselves in a look that screams "Mardi Gras threw up all over me" too?
Regardless of the lack of choices, the plus size department at Macy's was, in a way, akin to a cozy blanket. It was where I knew I belonged and fit in. I could shop there and even though I wasn't happy that I and my clothing bared the plus size label, I knew that I could always find SOMETHING that would make me look presentable. It didn't matter so much how I felt in it, just that it fit and looked professional. The cashiers in the department knew me. I knew them (and had chastised them plenty of times for forgetting to remove the security tag from my purchases (such as my suit jacket I had purchased for an interview - not THAT'S a good story for another time). It may sound weird, but I took comfort in a way, knowing that I had that one place to go where I was familiar with the brands, the fit, the styling. I came to understand what would work just by looking at a cut, and what would make me laugh out loud if I even attempted to put it on. I'm pretty sure that some designers create pieces in plus sizes just to torture those of us not blessed with a runway model's bod.
Yesterday, as I put on the smallest pant size offered (14W's) in the plus department, a flood of emotions came over me. Buttoning those pants and realizing just how baggy they were was both shocking and elating. In a split second I went from the excitement of seeing true progress from the surgery to the worry of not knowing what size I actually was or where to go to find pants that actually fit. It should have felt triumphant, and admittedly it did to a certain degree - but it also felt overwhelming and daunting. Finding myself in unfamiliar territory at the mall was an entirely new experience.
With no time to waste, off to the petite (!!!) department I went, in search of "regular" sized (but short length) pants. When you have body dysmorphia, as I suspect I do, this is a tough thing to do. I felt like a fraud shopping in this foreign (to me) department. The fat girl still lurking inside of me felt like people would look at me and wonder why I was there. As I scoured the racks of pants with single digit sizes, I worried that I was fooling myself into believing there was actually anything here for me that would accommodate my still very curvy shape. Interestingly enough, missy and petite sizes extend from 0 to 16, sometimes even 18. Sizing is different between a missy or petite 18 and a plus size 18W (although please don't expect me to explain the difference because honestly, even after being in the fashion biz for 15 years, I'm not sure, and it definitely varies from vendor to vendor). I knew I wasn't an 18, and hoped I wasn't a 16, so I wished upon a lucky star and grabbed as many 14's and yes, even 12's that I could find. Since I'm shrinking at a relatively rapid rate, I figured as long as I could zip them up and nothing was cutting off my circulation, I'd buy the smallest size I could fit into, knowing that soon enough, these too would be loose. Imagine my jubilation when I zipped up a pair of 12's - in velvet (not stretchy) fabric! Hell yes, they are tight, but I wouldn't describe them as seam splitting. Win Win! I can still wear them comfortably with a tunic and feel comfortable.
I almost cried right there in the dressing room.
And then I smiled. A. Big. Old. Shit. Eating. Grin.
Somebody, quick! Go hide my wallet. This shit just got real.
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