My big problem can be found on the front of my chest. Though most people would look at me and think, “Well, she could stand to lay off some fried chicken for a while, but other than that, she’s sort of proportionate,” try telling that to the people who make bras and shirts and dresses and anything else that may cover this area.
Button-down shirts have been my enemy for a long time and I can forget about ever getting a garment that has a stitched-in designated area where my chest is expected to “behave” and stay in place for any length of time. Most shirts in my size, which ranges from large to 2X depending on the design, are too wide on the bottom because the top has to make room or too short over all because they are being pulled up.
Efforts to buy a new bathing suit are soul crushing adventures to see how much underarm fat I can squish out of the straps. I usually buy the first or second one I try on if they can contain the important body parts and then loathe the purchase the remainder of the year.
I miss the simple days when I was a kid and my clothes were bought for me. I remember my mom complaining about how hard it was to buy pants for me because I was so tall AND skinny.
I took my son to the store a couple of weeks ago for new basketball shoes. He walked up to the name brand he knew was the coolest and picked the color that matched his mood, black. They were the most expensive, but I’m sure they’d help his game.
It was so easy and I saw that the store had no adorable size 11 women’s sandals for me, so all I had to do was help him choose the right size he needed.
What he doesn’t know is that he’s going to be a big man when he grows up. In the future, he may not be able to buy his shoes in these stores. He’s already wearing size 12s and he is 12! I look at him and his nose is at my eyeball.
My daughter tried on Easter dresses last month. She picked 10 to take to the dressing room. It was a simple task for her. She walked through the section calling out, “Size 7, size 7, size 7,” as she flung the gowns out to me, her personal shopping aide.
She modeled each dress and posed in the mirror talking to herself and chattering to me the entire time. “I want them all!”
“We aren’t getting them all,” I told her.
“Okay, mommy. Then I’ll take these two.” She held up her favorites and pleaded with her eyes. Grandma had sent money for one dress, not two, I explained. “Plus, you need shoes.”
She sighed and settled for one and the shoe shopping was horrible because all the cutest shoes in her size happened to be sold out or in the wrong color.
Get used to that, kiddo. If your feet are anything like mine, it is only going to get worse.