Monday, 7 October 2013

Not your mother's size 16


Photo courtesy of www.freedigitalphotos.net (AKARAKINGDOM)

I went to The Bay a week ago in search of underwear.
Sophie had gnawed on one of my last good pair and so I had no choice but to enter the horrifying world of women's undergarments. For years, I've been buying Jockey because they are cotton and last so long they will, no doubt, end up in the landfill for decades to come. In the meantime, they grace my arse for at least five years.
I was shocked to discover that all the sizing has changed. As I perused the never-ending racks of multi-color gitch, I realized that the highest number they went up to was a size 10. WTF?
Fortunately for me, I ran into the wife of a friend who was replacing her nuclear panties and she schooled me on how to buy modern underwear.
"Just ask the girl at the counter for a tape measure and you'll compare your hip size to the chart."
Seemed easy enough.
I was a size 9!
Well, it turned out I hadn't factored in the bunchy pair of pants I was wearing, so when I got the package home, I realized I had bought underwear for a hippopotamus. When I put them on, they literally puckered in the butt.
It's difficult to figure out how to buy clothes these days. Off the rack doesn't always correspond with the dimensions of my rack, which is a cup size H.
H! Bras for me are what kids used to call "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders.
For some reason, the geniuses who make bras think women my size need padding in neon colors
We don't.
They also think that many polyesters should sacrifice their lives to give me blisters under my boobs and make me smell like the inside of an abattoir.
I offer the following evidence.


Ewe, I know.
Pants are even worse.
If they fit fine in the hips,, they are too small in the waist. Or they're too big in the hips to accommodate my middle age waist.
Shirts? Fuggeddaboutit!
I buy mine at a men's store.
All the girl shirts my size never seem to fit in the middle.
Besides, they all come adorned with studs and glitter.
Ride me cowboy!
To make matters worse, I just found out that I'm not a true size 16. I used to say that at least I wasn't as big as my mother who, at the end of her life, was a size 24. Ah, but according to this article, I may be even bigger than Vera was.
Over the years, clothes manufacturers have been letting out the bands and the hems without telling us.
So a 16 is now a size 20 -- at least!
All my life before I had kids, I was a size 12 and skinny.
Despite working out like a demon, my only fashion choice appears to be something made by Ottawa Tent and Awning.
Ugh.
How depressing.
I may never go shopping again.
Just take out the garbage bag, punch some holes in it and pray for rain.
Sometimes it's hard being me.
 

No comments:

Post a Comment