Shrinking clothes

Isn't it a pain when your clothes repeatedly shrink in the wash. Whether it was a hot, warm or cold cycle I always noticed shrinkage to some degree. Of course there was nothing wrong with my machine, nothing wrong with the fibres of the fabric the clothes were made from. There was a lot wrong with my growing mass. The amount of times I can recall putting on my size 22 (size 18 in the US) trousers and feeling them tighten up across my widening thighs. I was naturally reticent to purchase the next size up, preferring to walk around and function in a pair of trousers that were starting to constrict the blood flow to my lower extremities. I was saving some pride for myself, my beligerance in not admitting I was getting progressively bigger meant that I could at least seek comfort in the fact I could still squeeze ( and I mean squeeze) into a pair of 22's. There were times I almost had to shoe horn myself in which required me to lie on the floor, take a deep breath and suck in my belly as much as possible. Being stubborn AND in denial can inflict physical discomfort!

Here in the UK, main stream clothing retailers are increasingly stocking larger clothes sizes to accommodate the nations expanding waistlines This is a very good thing in my book, it means that larger ladies have more choice. Tent like tops and shapeless trousers are being increasingly replaced by better fitting clothes to suit those who sport extra curves. Designers are finally realising that bigger girls deserve some attention too and enjoy looking nice as much as their skinnier counterparts.

Back when I was at my largest, these retailers were still only stocking sizes up to an 18 and even those particular sized items were hard to come by and never fit the same as a true size 18. Vanity sizing rarely works out in a fat persons favour.

Most of my shopping was done in a UK retailer called Evans. Evans specialise in larger sizes and they were my saviour on many occasions, although I disliked many of the styles. Come to think
of it, I vehenemently disliked the shopping process in it's entirety. Any time I needed to buy new trousers or skirts, the whole day was fraught with frustration and tears. Tears were an inevitability.

Many of those shopping excursions were done with my boyfriend at the time in tow. Poor bloke, he was so patient with me as I wandered around the shop, half dazed as I begrudgingly cherry picked items off the rails. The metres of material only served in reminding me of what they had to cover, square inch wise it was quite some surface area. I often looked around me and clocked my fellow shoppers, all ladies carrying a bit of extra weight but I never noticed any pain or frustration etched on their face as they happily browsed the rails.

When I had reluctantly decided on my chosen items, the next task was to try them on. Ugh, I hated that part. Often I would not even get that far and would take as small a size as I could (self perception of ones body size can be rather distorted) hand the cash over to the cashier and get out of there. Mission complete, pain over.

The most unforgiving small space

The handful of times I did make use of the changing rooms, I wished I hadn't.

So you walked in, drew the curtain (or shut the door) and were immediately faced with obstacles. A tiny cubicle that would have trouble housing a skinny person, let alone a larger one, harsh lighting and a full length mirror. If the retailer was particularly sadistic, there would be a surround of mirrors that cover every awful angle. So I would stand there, items in tow and build up the courage to remove my clothes. Eventually I would peel the layers away, making sure my eyes were trained anywhere but the mirror. Human nature, as it is, meant that I would always end up gazing at my reflection. It's like rubber necking an accident, you can't help but look.
I never liked what I saw, clad only in my underwear and bra the reflection was brutal. The lighting never assisted in flattering me in any way shape or form. It seemed to enhance every imperfection and slyly hide any good points.

So it only took 2 or 3 minutes of giving myself the once over before the tears started to sting my eyes. Writing this now, I feel really sad. On one occasion I had a 360 degree view of my arse, I remember feeling shocked at the sheer size of it; not sure about fat bottomed girls making the rocking world go round as this one's world had stopped. Moving up from the arse, it just got worse. My boobs were so large they were in danger of meeting up for a social with my stomach. Gravity does have a rather negative effect on gargantuan boobs. My bra size was a 44J at it's biggest. There are special websites for that sort of thing, I could have probably made a lot of money outof them at the time, missed opportunity!

Was I really that awful to look at? Probably not, the saying 'we are our own worse critics' is so true. My ever dedicated boyfriend would be standing outside the changing room, his futile attempts at asking how I was getting on masking his own fear that I would break down at any moment. As I said before, it was an inevitability.

It did not take long for me to try on the items before hurriedly placing my own threads back on. As soon as I was fully clothed again, the relief was palpable. Out of site, out of mind (well not out of mind but far enough back in there to help me forget that reflection temporarily at least.)
Once I had skulked out of the changing room, I tried to mask my tears although my fella knew me better. We would hurry to the cashier, pay for the item/s and leave. Once outside, the relief would spill over me although, most of these times, my fella would ask me if I was alright and that would be the catalyst for the tear flood gates to open, they always did.
I was always moody, quiet and pensive after these shopping trips, partly through frustration and partly through the reality check they gave me. Ordinarily I could carry on chowing down on my large meals and copious snacks, having the choice not to look at myself in the mirror. But when I went shopping, I was forced to look at my body and realise the size of clothes I was having to wear.

Their ain't nothing like a reality check from time to time. Sobering moments for sure.

L x