I am a size 12. Size 10 on a good day. An 8 a week before I go on vacation. A 12-14 when I get back from vacation but that’s it. That’s all my sizes.
I watch what I eat from Monday to Thursday. I eat Ketchup chips like a wood chipper on Friday nights with a red wine, of course. On Saturday we BBQ steaks with fully loaded baked potatoes and wine to wash it down. That’s usually followed by a Costco apple pie or Tuxedo Cake. Then Sunday morning I crawl on my Weight Watchers scales and start all over again.
If it wasn’t for the weekends I would be a skinny as a rake because I am really good all week. I watch what I eat. Type everything in to “My Fitness Pal” app on my iPhone. I walk the dog to get my steps in and I drink a bucket of water each day.
So I believe I am doing all I can.
I know I am never going to be a size 2 and I don’t care. I don’t want to be a size 2. I am 5 foot 9. If I was a size 2 I would look like a coat hanger or like I was on heroin. I don’t want to see my ribs when I put on a big wool sweater and I certainly don’t want friends telling me “I have no arse!”
I would like to be more toned but I had back surgery and that means I can’t do sit ups. So I will wear Spanx like everyone else.
I am ok with that.
But apparently the world is not.
I walked into a dress store and automatically turned to my left and began looking at clothes. The sales lady calls out “Excuse me Miss. You’re on the wrong side.”
My first through was “Is this the drag queen side. What side do I look like I should be on?” Maybe I am wearing too much makeup. The stuff that runs through my head. I am not good with confrontation!
“What size are you?” she smiles at me as she walks toward me and I feel obligated to tell her because I don’t know what else to do. “Size 10” I lie. I am bloating and I know I can’t pull this off.
She squints as she sizes me up and down. “Your clothes are on the other side. This is the ‘Plus girl’ section. This section is size 14 and up.”
There were two ladies flipping through the sales rack watching my interaction with this sales lady and I felt like saying “Ok I’ll go, but can I take them too. They are obviously a size 8.” But I knew she wouldn’t buy it. They were clearly in the right section.
I walked over to “my” section and started shopping but I felt bad for the two ladies left over on the other side of the store probably wondering why they were not told to talk a walk on the wild side.
Why can’t clothes rack go from size 2 to 22?
Why do we need two sides of a store?
Why isn’t there a bathroom in the same section as the change rooms?
I don’t know!
Did our mothers and grandmothers all agree at some point that the size 0-12s will shop on the right and the size 14-22s will shop on the left?
I didn’t buy anything there I went to another store. I was looking for a white blouse. I asked the sales lady in the next store if she had any plain white blouses.
“Are you a professional woman?” she inquired.
“No I am amateur one. A broken one really. I leak.” I confessed to her astonishment and just for fun I put on puppy dog eyes and locked stares with her while I let a little drool fall out of my mouth and roll down my chin.
She looked away first.
“We do have white blouses over here.” She brought me to the rack and disappeared to the back room. I assume to update her Facebook status to let all her friends and family know about the crazy lady in the store.
What difference does it make if I am professional or not?
And what profession was she talking about? I was wearing my Hootchie Momma shorts with heals. But who is she to judge?
We have so many labels to slap on ourselves! Is that a Michael Kors watch? Is that a Coach purse? Are you a size 8 or an 18? Are you a professional woman or a minimum wage worker? I need to know if I should waste my time showing you our white blouses.
A guy once told me if I lost weight I would look really good because I had a pretty face… I was 8 months pregnant! They still haven’t found his body yet.
The bottom line is, I am healthy, happy and I like who I am.
I also find it extremely hard not to laugh at people. I am not perfect. Give me a break.
I do try not to judge. I really do. It’s hard I know. You know. We all know. So if I do judge I do it in my head only or whisper it to hubby or my BFF Nancy and make them laugh. Then sneak away so they look all “judgy” and I don’t.
My point is, what harm was it to let me look through the plus section. I would have found my way out eventually. I can’t help but think, what if I was size 14 and wondered in the 2-12 section? Would she have told me to go to the Plus section? Because if she did I would have grabbed a size 10 jeans and stretched that fabric to the breaking level until I got every last celluloid dimple packed in. Then I would have strutted around like a rooster in that store.
I don’t mind a sales lady giving me fashion advice and suggesting somethings that would look good on me. But seriously, you don’t know what my day is like. I go into stores because they are my happy place and I can’t afford real therapy. I don’t want stress. I definitely don’t want to yell my size across a store.
Finally for God sakes can’t we find a better label than “Plus Sized?” Why not “Womanly” “Under-Womanly” and “Over-Womanly.” That sounds so much better.
Excuse me miss! You’re too over-womanly to shop here. I could be happy with that.