I most certainly don't have a passion for fashion. In fact, I could name many places where I’d much rather spend the best part of my day than the cramped and stuffy dressing rooms of a Debenhams. Don’t get me wrong, I love owning new clothes. I just don’t enjoy the process required to get them.
There are many reasons why I have a personal vendetta against clothes shopping. Going clothes shopping often feels like you’ve unwillingly signed up to participate in a Guinness World Record attempt for who can take off and put back on the same clothes the greatest number of times in a twelve-hour period. Moreover, with their harsh lighting and barrage of mirrors, walking into a changing cubicle can feel like you’ve accidentally stumbled onto the set of Naked Attraction (except, in this case, the only body under scrutiny is your own). And I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling personally victimised by various clothing brands’ dodgy sizing (more on this to follow).
A while back, my ready avoidance to go clothes shopping began to pose quite a problem. I had such a limited wardrobe that I felt like Sisyphus (that is, minus the massive boulder and plus the punishment of endlessly having to do the laundry). The situation was getting a bit critical. My favourite (and only) pair of jeans that properly fitted had developed a hole near the crotch so large that it was probably illegal to go outside wearing them. My pyjama drawer still contained a top that I bought when I was twelve from the kids’ section (I’m now twenty). Furthermore, I possessed countless other tops and skirts that looked like I’d had a laundry mishap and they’d shrunk in the wash. There was no doubt about it; I needed some new clothes.
Although this was pre-covid, the inevitability of getting stuck in a jumper and having to be rescued from that predicament by my mother didn’t sound all that appealing to me. As such, I decided that my best course of action was to do some online shopping. After hours spent trawling through various clothing websites, all I had to show for my efforts was roughly ten items in my virtual basket. As free returns are a blessing, I decided to hedge my bets and ordered everything in two sizes – one smaller and one bigger – to up my chances of finding something that would fit. All the items looked promising. Now all that was left to do was for me to wait until everything got shipped to my doorstep. Hurrah!
The parcels trickled through my letterbox until eventually I had received everything that I’d ordered. I took my purchases upstairs for the all-important try-on, before partaking in the saddest excuse for a fashion show in my living room, with an audience of one (my mum) or two (if you count my cat). Now, this is a crucial point. Unlike our friends, our mothers will tell us the things we don’t want to hear but desperately need to know… like the fact that the material is so sheer that they can see your knickers, or that you’re unlikely to wear those uber-tight jeans that make you look great but will inevitably give you stomach-aches. Most importantly, you need your mum on hand to ask the vital question… “will you actually wear it?”
Out of the twenty or so items that I ordered, how many do you reckon fitted me? Seven or eight perhaps? Drumroll please… not a single item fitted. But it was so much worse than that. I tried on item after item that looked like they were made to clothe a Sylvanian Family. The various flowy trousers I’d ordered made me look like Ursula and, at best, I could only manage to get one leg into some of the skirts. I was originally planning on including a photo of me wearing one of the worst offenders but my grandma reads my articles so it’s probably best that I give that a miss.
Now, I’m aware that there are far bigger issues going on in the world than clothes not fitting a privileged white woman from Surrey but, as self-indulgent as it sounds, I was feeling rather deflated after that dismal failure of a clothing haul. All these clothes that were supposedly “my size” didn’t fit, and the few that did fit were seriously unflattering. It really knocked my confidence.
However, this got me thinking. Surely, I can’t be the only one. So, to other misfits out there, it’s okay if you no longer fit into your favourite jeans. It’s okay if that top that you thought looked incredible on the mannequin looks disappointingly ordinary on you. And it’s okay if you’re still struggling to accept the way you look. The buck shouldn’t stop with your body. It should rest with the clothing brands that have these ridiculous sizing policies that make people feel like their bodies are the problem.
By Becky Golding
Image courtesy of Pexels via Pixabay
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