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Mixed Messages from My Wardrobe

The oldest piece of clothing that I own, and still wear occasionally, is a pair of shorts that I don whenever I am painting. Every once in awhile, I throw them on even if I’m not painting, because I might be a bit behind in laundry.  Yesterday was one of those days.  For some reason, I got the lame-brain idea that it might be fun to take the Dog Who Poops as he Walks out for a spin around the block, and those shorts were the only pair that were not in the hamper.  In retrospect, I’m not sure why I cared if I was wearing clean shorts or not, considering the fact that I spent 3/4 of the walk carrying a hefty bag of stinky dog poop.

Those shorts are a size 10.  I hadn’t worn them in a few months, and I was a more than a little discombobulated by the fact that they suddenly seemed to be tight around the waist.  I will be the first to admit that I’ve gained some weight.  But not enough to pop a button in size 10 shorts.  There was no denying, though, that I felt like there was a boa constrictor wrapped around my stomach when I was finally able to fasten them.  According to Painter Shorts, I need to be doing a lot more strolls with the Dog Who Poops as He Walks before I turn into the Girl Who Rolls Down the Street.

My size 2 skirt, purchased 2 days ago, begs to differ.  According to that hot little number, I have nothing to be concerned about.  I should be strutting my stuff more often just to give other people the opportunity to feast their eyes on my lean, slender physique.  The Dog Who Poops as He Walks should be grateful that he is accompanied by the Girl Who Struts Beside Him with Plastic Grocery Bags.

This is what we’ve come to, my friends, a 43-year old body that, ON THE SAME DAY, fits into 2 sizes that should be as far away from each other as Obama and Romney.  No wonder we all have distorted self-images.

Painter Shorts tells me, “This is what happens when you get too big for your britches.  Now, let’s do something before you burst.”

Hot Number Skirt flatters me, makes me feel like a cover model, and pooh-poohs the idea that I might need to cut back a little on the carbs.  It also tells me to ignore the fact that there are Size 00 and Size 000 skirts on the racks that raise their eyebrows in alarm if I even dare to take a peek at their tags.

I’m pretty sure I’m not fat.  And I’m very sure I’m not thin.  I suspect, despite the size 2’s in my closet, that I am somewhere in between.

What would happen, do you think, if we stopped putting sizes on clothing – just stuck them on the rack from smallest to biggest, and shopped for the size that looked like it would fit (instead of the size we hoped or thought would fit)?  Should we start a Size Revolution now, or just wait until the first day we spot a size -1 on the rack?

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