Size Shame

 I have distinct memories of being at J.Crew and the first time a double zero dress fit me, I was so excited at the prospect that I could finally wear adult clothes. It seemed like a world of endless sartorial decisions laid ahead of me. At that age, I was excited that I was big enough to fit into adult clothes, but I hadn’t realized the attachment I would develop between the size of my clothing and the way I felt about my body. 

    Throughout college as my weight and body fluctuated so did my sizing in clothing, in my post-grad life I settled into somewhere between a 4-6, which isn’t big per say, but living in a world of fitness influencer and skinny tea models, it could sometimes feel massive. I’m self aware enough to know that my size relative to my height of 5’8’’ really was nothing to comment on. I wasn’t someone that you’d remark on their size. I wasn’t thin and I wasn’t fat. I was nothing. I also realize that my size while sometimes to me feels large and leaves me wishing my hips were more narrow or whatever inadequacy I can find on a given day in the scheme of the United States I am smaller than the national average (although there is significant disagreement on what that number is). 

All of this being said though, I, like most of my peers, have struggled with body image issues and have often found myself with friends commiserating about our legs or our stomachs as we scroll through someone’s curated and probably edited Instagrammed. I have had periods of positivity with my body and I’ve always felt the most comfortable and dare I even say proud of my body when I was using it, whether it was training for a half-marathon or going to daily hot-yoga classes when my body has been able to outperform my self-imposed expectations of it. During those times, while my insecurities would still flare up I could usually subside them with a thought of this is the same body that allows you to run every morning or that held me in crow for a full 5 seconds (in crow pose every second counts). 

At the beginning of quarantine, when I relocated to my parent’s dining room table, I quickly packed on the pounds when my only form of exercise was the momentous trek to the pantry filled with all my favorite snacks, Milanos, goldfish, oh my! I let this go on for a couple of weeks too long until I could no longer stand the look of the angry red marks my jeans made in my hips. I started going for long meandering walks before and after work and as the weather has warmed up I’ve started running again. I’ve started feeling proud of my body again as I watched it change due to my running and just using it more, which brings me to this week. 

A designer, who I love, but I can’t usually afford, was on sale on Net-A-Porter and specifically there was the most beautiful black suit, with white piping. It was so chic and read so Yves Saint Laurent to me (never forget Yves). I decided it must be mine. I quickly ordered it in a size 4 and while I hesitated on whether to order the size 4 or the 6, I justified the size 4 in my mind given that I am running again and the 4 should fit. 

The massive brown box arrives (is there ever anything more exciting than receiving a new package?) and I rushed upstairs to try it on before dinner, as I touched the crepe for the first time it felt so luxurious and it felt like adult clothing like I was sneaking to try on my mother’s clothes, but this was mine. I slipped on the blazer and then pulled up the pants. As I pulled on the pants I felt them get a bit tight around my hips but I buttoned them without issue on my waist. 

I look in the mirror and at first glance everything fits and looks good, but as I turn to my side, I see how tight the pants are and how they really squeeze my derriere. I go downstairs to show my mother and seek her seal of approval. While my mother agrees I do look chic, she cracked my confidence by saying “Maybe you should size up in the pants?” 

I scoff and respond, “Mom, I’m just wearing the wrong underwear!” But as I walk back upstairs to change into something a bit more appropriate for dinner her words ring in my ears. I know in the back of my head that she’s right, the size 6 would probably fit and look better, but I want to be a size 4. I eat dinner and continue to think about whether I should exchange the pants for the larger size. I feel a bit defeated my running and working out and I can’t fit into the size that I want to fit into. I realize that’s exactly it, I want to fit into a size 4, but that doesn’t mean I will always be a size 4. I have placed such a premium on being a size 4, but for what reasons? What does that tiny number on the tag really mean? Then it dawns on me I, somewhere, along the road, equated my size to my self-worth and my confidence. If I wasn’t the size I wanted to be then I couldn’t like or be happy with my body? 

I’m not going to say I’m always happy with the way I look or the size I am, but I’m also starting to learn that it’s more important to look good and be happy with the way I look then having the satisfaction of knowing I’m a size 4. My relationship with my body like many things in life is constantly evolving and I know that while I have come to terms with my body right now there are likely going to be times in the future where I become unsatisfied by it again and for better or for worse, that is normal. Like any life long relationships there will be bumps in the roads and my body will probably resent me when I eat too many jelly beans and my stomach hurts and I will probably be upset with my body when there’s a dress at a sample sale and I can’t possibly make it fit, but the most important part is that we always work our way back. I have to remember that a tiny number written in impossible to read font on a tag is not my rating for how well I’m doing in life. 

P.S. To bring it all full circle, the size six pants arrived and I pulled them on and they easily buttoned without battle. I did a little twirl in the mirror, they’re a smidge too large, but nothing a trip to the tailor won’t fix and most importantly I feel less conscious about my body in them. When I wear them, I won’t be constantly fussing with them and wondering if people are looking at my too tight pants.