The Shirt

Up until the last couple of months, all the clothes I bought were a size 28. I wouldn't even bother trying on anything smaller. I can't remember now what prompted the decision, but a couple of months ago I tried on a shirt that was a size 22, and yanno what? It fit! It not only fit--instead of looking like a pup tent--it fit my curves, emphasized the fact that I'm stacked, and left no doubt that I'm a large woman who also happens to be hourglass-shaped. I was dumbfounded. I bought it covertly, and if I'd been wearing a hat I'd have tugged it down over my eyes to hide my identity as I left the store, lest...

...lest what? Lest anyone see that I was daring to be who I am? Who knows? It was just fear, the kind of blind panic that used to have me tugging and stretching out size 28 shirts that were already six sizes too big.

It took a week before I wore that shirt in public. I would put it on every morning before work, look down, smooth my hands over the daring and cheerful stripes. I'd feel the seams hugging my curves, see the collar draping just a little bit provocatively over the swell of my breasts, and I'd panic and rip it off. With a sigh of relief I'd shimmy into my trusty, comforting, swimming size 28. With its ample folds and shapeless form, it was like a sign held up to the world that, although a fat young woman, I at least had the decency to be ashamed of myself. It was an apology for having the bad form to...well...have a bad form.

But that body-hugging size 22 took on a life of its own. I would peek in my closet surreptitiously, my gaze running hungrily along the sassy contours that dared me to be brazen. The hint of shimmering silver threads caught my eye when I least expected it; it was like Satan's lure, tempting me to be bad, to break the rules.

Then one morning, I left it on. I'm not sure what was different about that morning, or why I chose it instead of the one before, or the one after. It was just a morning before work, like any other. Except it wasn't, because I left the house in what had become, in my mind, "The Shirt." I noticed my posture was different in this shirt: I didn't slouch, looking at the sidewalk in a desperate bid to be invisible, my back was straight, my belly held in, my shoulders were back, and most importantly, my chin was up. I was looking the world in the eye.

And, to my amazement, the world looked back. Just like that, I went from being invisible, nose pressed longingly against the glass as I watched life going by, to being part of it.

In reality, of course, it wasn't "just like that," because it's not a shirt that changed, it's the person who was finally willing to put it on. But I'm a profoundly different person today than I was three months ago, and the visible change started with The Shirt.

I spent most of my life convinced that what the media said was true, that I was deficient in all ways because I didn't conform in this one way. But you know what? I don't live my life rubbing shoulders with the media. I live it among people, and I'm finding that none of them are as hard on me as I was on myself.

I was so afraid of being noticed, because of what I was sure the judgments and reactions would be. But in putting on that shirt - and subsequently purchased shirts like it - I'm finding that I was totally, incredibly wrong. Every woman I know, and I do mean every single one, has asked me if I've lost weight. I scraped my jaw off the floor with a spatula the first time someone asked me that. It was the antithesis of what I was expecting. Evidently, those billowing folds of baggy clothing didn't hide anything at all - they made me seem even bigger than I am! Amazing.

I've started getting compliments on my style, my hair, and my general prettiness from strangers on the street. (Only some of whom are crazy!) The compliments that mean the most to me, though, are the ones that reflect the change in my attitude. Recently a woman that I work with paused, gave me a once over and said, "I don't know why I never noticed this before. You're completely Betty Boop, aren't you?" I laughed out loud, because I knew she didn't mean physically, but that who I really am - my playful, teasing, confident self - is now the me that people see.

And yanno what? Being seen feels great.

 

 

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