this is a rant about size. my size.

Please, even if you are joking, do not talk about negative sizes.

It is, as I said on someone else’s Facebook feed, the norm to have my gender and my age stripped away from me when I shop for certain items. For example, did you know I can’t buy bras in actual adult lingerie sections or shops? I hate being the oldest shopper by at least fourteen years, if I want a look approaching “natural”. Walking in on a kid in the dressing room is ugly in more than one way (a. why do those doors not lock and b. mothers must take glaring classes during pregnancy). I also have a bitch of a time finding suits. I end up buying separates and hoping they’ll look right together for whatever I need. It’s a rare shop that carries jackets that fit; trousers are easier but require six inches of hemming, meaning I had better be grateful I have the money to get them hemmed. The only businesswear that has ever fit off-the-rack is labelled “boys”.

Boys. Not men’s.

I’m 26 and I qualify neither as a woman nor an adult.

Sick sick sick of XS/XXS/XXXS/O/OO/whatever new notion designers have come up with to describe my fading-to-nothingness body. I get it, okay? I’m too short to be thin; I don’t exist to you and you don’t want to acknowledge my inconvenient self. Well, hell, I’ve just learned how to want to exist, so quit making me rethink that decision. I’m not nothing. I’m not small beyond smallness. I was once quite ordinary in my way, nice and midsized. It is not my fault humanity now comes in many shapes and sizes. Why are you punishing me? Why did you stop designing for me when you started designing for other people? Why can’t you rake in the cash from all of us?

I hate most of all that I am again small enough to be flung — manhandled — small and insignificant. I think I understand Napoleon a little better with each passing shopping expedition.

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