What I learned from an Ugly Shirt
I have developed a bad habit over the past few years. Nothing that is immoral, or illegal; just a shade detrimental to my pocketbook. I have acquired a taste for nice clothing. Don’t get me wrong, I have worn clothes the vast majority of my life; I just never took enough pride in myself to choose nice, flattering clothing.
A trite affair? Possibly. When I was 402 pounds, four years ago, I was thrilled to find anything that remotely fit, and did not have Omar’s label in it. Since that time I have shed a few pounds, and while I do not have to shop at the super-specialty stores, Victoria’s Secret does not harbor my size either.
Clothing size is more than a number, it is a state of mind. I have taken a long winding journey to travel from a woman’s 32-34 (not waist size, mind you, but size, like after the size 26-28 most regular stores sometimes carry) to my current 16-18. Out of long habit, I still turn sideways when going through a turnstile, but at least I no longer live in terror of a booth seat at a restaurant or scan any room I enter looking for the dreaded wicker furniture or the horror of chairs with arms. Molded steel sturdiness is no longer my main concern in choosing a place to sit.
I have found a few shops that cater to my not-very large, but above average size, and carry everything from the nice grown-up clothes that I wear to work, to the silly, sexy clothes I actually enjoy.
Imagine my horror one day, when I strode purposefully into one of my favorite clothiers, only to be confronted with the horror of a frumpy blouse. Innocuous in and of itself, except maybe the color scheme: teal, brown and a pumpkin orange done up in polka-dots. Large, overlapping polka dots. It was hanging there, harmlessly, between the floor-length crushed velvet Renaissance/Goth gown, and the full leather bustier. Blandly offensive. I stared at it, trying to fathom if it was an escapee from Grannies World a few shops up, come to huddle with her hipper sisters, or if it was lost, the poor thing. Uncertainly, I looked behind it, and sure enough, there were several more. So, not lost, and not a stray. It was certainly meant to be here, in my haven of tasteful halter top dresses, t-shirts with witty axioms, and Little Bo Peep undies.
What to do?
I pondered my options. I could let it destroy my image of this shop. I could overlook it, and blame it on perhaps a new manager. Perhaps. However, as I stood looking at that, tasteless, unsightly, so-ugly-you-just-have-to-stare blouse, I was jolted that that blouse was ME. Or at least what I once saw myself as, what I treated myself as; an outsider, not really worthy of spending money on the “good stuff”, existing only to be commented on, laughed at and passed up on, not worth it.
I am sure I looked a fool, standing there, staring at a retro 70’s frumpy blouse, with tears in my eyes, realization hitting me at full force. I was worth it all, plus some. Didn’t I write that to myself at least weekly in my journal? Isn’t that what I struggle to fully and truly accept? Hadn’t I just spent the last four years reframing my view of reality? Yet, here is was, eloquently stated, contained in one ugly blouse.
I bought that blouse, along with with my Bo-Peep frilly undies, and a Tinkerbelle cami, just for the sheer representational value it possessed. Why? It is not like I would wear it anywhere. I bought it because that ugly, frumpy blouse brought home to me, forcefully, the power of choice. Not in choosing clothing, but in the power of choosing what to say to myself, what to believe about myself, what type of people to surround myself with, and how to react to events and people I do not have any power over.
I choose to be the sexy Bo-Peep undie wearing woman that I am inside, and outside, because that is what I want at this point in my life, at this SIZE in my life. I like my body. After years of being negative, berating it, berating myself, for a perceived failure, I have finally chosen to like my body. I buy it nice clothes, dress it up, perfume it, and slowly, I am falling in love with it, all of it, the forgotten, lonely, overlooked part of myself.
If I should forget, or endure the rude eyes, or worse, from a stranger, I merely need to look at my frumpy blouse and be reminded that I have the choice to make of my life what I want, how I want; I have that power of choice.
© Ruth Molenaar 2005
A trite affair? Possibly. When I was 402 pounds, four years ago, I was thrilled to find anything that remotely fit, and did not have Omar’s label in it. Since that time I have shed a few pounds, and while I do not have to shop at the super-specialty stores, Victoria’s Secret does not harbor my size either.
Clothing size is more than a number, it is a state of mind. I have taken a long winding journey to travel from a woman’s 32-34 (not waist size, mind you, but size, like after the size 26-28 most regular stores sometimes carry) to my current 16-18. Out of long habit, I still turn sideways when going through a turnstile, but at least I no longer live in terror of a booth seat at a restaurant or scan any room I enter looking for the dreaded wicker furniture or the horror of chairs with arms. Molded steel sturdiness is no longer my main concern in choosing a place to sit.
I have found a few shops that cater to my not-very large, but above average size, and carry everything from the nice grown-up clothes that I wear to work, to the silly, sexy clothes I actually enjoy.
Imagine my horror one day, when I strode purposefully into one of my favorite clothiers, only to be confronted with the horror of a frumpy blouse. Innocuous in and of itself, except maybe the color scheme: teal, brown and a pumpkin orange done up in polka-dots. Large, overlapping polka dots. It was hanging there, harmlessly, between the floor-length crushed velvet Renaissance/Goth gown, and the full leather bustier. Blandly offensive. I stared at it, trying to fathom if it was an escapee from Grannies World a few shops up, come to huddle with her hipper sisters, or if it was lost, the poor thing. Uncertainly, I looked behind it, and sure enough, there were several more. So, not lost, and not a stray. It was certainly meant to be here, in my haven of tasteful halter top dresses, t-shirts with witty axioms, and Little Bo Peep undies.
What to do?
I pondered my options. I could let it destroy my image of this shop. I could overlook it, and blame it on perhaps a new manager. Perhaps. However, as I stood looking at that, tasteless, unsightly, so-ugly-you-just-have-to-stare blouse, I was jolted that that blouse was ME. Or at least what I once saw myself as, what I treated myself as; an outsider, not really worthy of spending money on the “good stuff”, existing only to be commented on, laughed at and passed up on, not worth it.
I am sure I looked a fool, standing there, staring at a retro 70’s frumpy blouse, with tears in my eyes, realization hitting me at full force. I was worth it all, plus some. Didn’t I write that to myself at least weekly in my journal? Isn’t that what I struggle to fully and truly accept? Hadn’t I just spent the last four years reframing my view of reality? Yet, here is was, eloquently stated, contained in one ugly blouse.
I bought that blouse, along with with my Bo-Peep frilly undies, and a Tinkerbelle cami, just for the sheer representational value it possessed. Why? It is not like I would wear it anywhere. I bought it because that ugly, frumpy blouse brought home to me, forcefully, the power of choice. Not in choosing clothing, but in the power of choosing what to say to myself, what to believe about myself, what type of people to surround myself with, and how to react to events and people I do not have any power over.
I choose to be the sexy Bo-Peep undie wearing woman that I am inside, and outside, because that is what I want at this point in my life, at this SIZE in my life. I like my body. After years of being negative, berating it, berating myself, for a perceived failure, I have finally chosen to like my body. I buy it nice clothes, dress it up, perfume it, and slowly, I am falling in love with it, all of it, the forgotten, lonely, overlooked part of myself.
If I should forget, or endure the rude eyes, or worse, from a stranger, I merely need to look at my frumpy blouse and be reminded that I have the choice to make of my life what I want, how I want; I have that power of choice.
© Ruth Molenaar 2005
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