This is a history of me in items of clothing. Baby Me is dressed in lace and frills. There are flounces as as toddler. There are ribbons. I am photographed wearing the best dresses and I am displayed like a doll.
What happens to that girl?
The height of fashion when I was a child (in my actual life as opposed to all of the women I aspired to be) was my cousin. She was older, thin and had awesome hair. She wore dungarees! She had a red checked shirt. Her cuffs were turned up. I was lucky to inherit her clothes as she aged out, but found myself, as I would for many years into my adulthood, violently tugging her hand-me-downs up my considerably different body, red-faced and determined to get the clothes on, embarrassed that someone would see the struggle. Spoiler alert. I couldn’t get her clothes on. They were Too Small.
So I wore clothes that I didn’t love but fit me, whilst simultaneously being supremely jealous of anyone who could dress like Michelle Pfeiffer in Grease 2. Oh to rock a tiny leather jacket and skin tight trousers.
I have a pink button down dress. I love it because it’s not too tight around my middle, the arms are wide enough not to cut in and it has a flared skirt. When I spin, the skirt fans out gloriously. I am light, a feather, a princess even. I am 6, maybe 7. I grow out of it too quickly, my tummy growing faster than my limbs, and, in my head, I am a barrel.
Am I too fat for normal clothes? Possibly not. But any fat is too much fat, so I am pulled into the belief that I am too fat for clothes that I like. The cycle of self-loathing starts with hiding bits of myself to created a skimmed version of myself. Muffin top. Bingo wings. Thunder thighs.
In any case, I can’t keep wearing dresses because I learn quickly that my generous thighs might cause a forest fire if they are left to rub together at will. Nowadays, you can wear modesty shorts, or chub-rub shorts, but back then, and as a child, it was unheard of. My inner thighs chafe so badly that I am often left in agony. I try to find ways to sit, discreetly, with my legs apart to I can relieve the burn. The dresses go, unless there’s an occasion that calls for one.
In primary school, I am selected to take part in a choir that will perform at De Montfort Hall. I wear a skirt. By the time I am on stage with all my peers, my inner thighs are actually smoking, having been rubbed raw. I sing half heartedly, unable to lose the sensation. We go out for dinner afterwards but I spend the whole time trying to alleviate the pain.
The eighties and nineties, in terms of fashion, have experienced a resurgence of interest now in the 2020s. The fashions of the time are now back. I wish I could have experienced the fashions of those decades first hand, spent time deciding between puffball and ra-ra skirts, pulling on leg warmers to match my leotard, like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance. Maybe even worn a tight-fitting vest with combat trousers like all of the women in All Saints. My peers were so a la mode, so able to move with the changing silhouettes, whereas I was left browsing TopShop and Jane Norman for clothes that were made in my size. I wanted to wear the tight black trousers, the Fruit of the Loom jumpers and yes, the Kickers (the only coveted item of the time that I managed to acquire, because despite the fact I had feet like boats, they fit me). Every visit to the shopping centre was filled with a ridiculous hope; maybe this time I would find at item of clothing that was stylish and fit me well.
What size was I? Who on earth knows? You had options in the size lottery - size in centimetres for height and waist, in inches too if you wanted to do maths as you shopped. You had 8, 10, 12, 14, 16 - and usually nothing more. Sometimes you were given letters to play with: S, M, L. When you are stepping into your teens, you don’t know whether adult sizes are made for you. So it’s a game of try on and see. Try on and be disappointed, again.
I’ve never met a changing room in a clothes shop that I liked. There are rules: try the larger item first so you have the option to size down and feel good about yourself. Don’t look in side mirrors designed to show you at all angles, that’s just cruelty waiting to happen. Don’t sweat. Whatever you do, don’t sweat.
Plus-size, or curve, wasn’t invented yet. If you looked at the catalogues as a fat person (and I spent a lot of time looking at catalogues and wishing for a different body), then your option was the humble kaftan. That’s what big people wore, a shapeless swathe of cloth, usually in tropical colours. I wasn’t there for it. I’m still not. I was still convinced that someone would make clothes that brought out my inner sylph. It didn’t happen for a long time.
It’s when I realise that every shopping trip is marked by me buying a piece of jewellery, or a pair of shoes, that I stop trying to look like a girl. For some reason, this is when I go to the staple of menswear at the time, Burton, to find a jumper that will fit. I am convinced that men’s sizes are bigger. I leave with a jumper, a hideous, green, stripy thing that hangs beyond my bum. On a later trip, I will buy a new version in dark blue. These become my uniform. Trousers and men’s jumpers, made of a wool blend and horribly scratchy on my skin. I don’t even know how long I wear them; possibly throughout my time in upper secondary school. Everything fits underneath them and I don’t have to follow the rules that have been handed to me on a stone tablet: don’t wear horizontal stripes, don’t wear things that ‘cut you off’ in the wrong place, don’t wear skinny trousers, don’t wear baggy trousers, don’t wear long skirts in you’re short (they will make you look shorter), don’t wear round necks/v-necks/boat necks for god knows reasons.
I don’t look at my reflection. That girl is not to be looked at.
Just as I make it to Sixth Form (and the perm has grown out), a new shop appears in town. It’s called Jeffrey Rogers; when I walk in, I swear I hear chubby angels singing. Someone has designed clothes for fat teenagers! There isn’t a bloody kaftan in sight - no, there are leggings, elasticated waists, flowing tops that fit over the lumps and bumps, in colours - and yes, in black (my preferred shade for obvious reasons). They aren’t cheap, but the floodgates open. I don’t use euphemisms about these shops: they are fat girl shops because they are ours. We can walk in and choose literally what we like.
If anyone knows Jeffrey Rogers, please tell him I am grateful. The late nineties pass in a sudden flurry of interest in what’s on my body. I develop a style, of all things, albeit one that is odd and incoherent - not entirely a surprise when I have spent most of my life either being dressed by others, or having to choose the only big thing available. I am in clothing puberty, but it is still conservative and designed to hide me. My trousers are flared because a) fashionable and b) evens out my hips and thighs. I endure, and learn to love, soggy hems for many years, exalting in the sheer flariness of my trouser bottoms.
What starts as freedom ends up a uniform that I hide behind. Black trousers and a top, sometimes also in black. I wear the uniform for nearly fifteen years in various guises. As a teacher at the start of my career, I realise that suits of bigger ladies are frumpy and almost impossible to find. I silently envy the thin brigade and swelter in polyester (breathable fabric comes at a premium when you’re fat).
When my marriage ends, I go shopping. There’s a picture of me, a mirror shot, grainy to hide any imperfections in me or in my bedroom. I am wearing a maroon tulip dress with tights. It has cap sleeves, so I pair it with a cardigan. But it shows I have a waist. I post in on Facebook in a fit of ‘look at me, I’m doing fine’ and a colleague comments positively in disbelief.
The dresses are back.
Life begins. I am that girl again with the pink dress. I can make choices. I can afford to roll my eyes at plus size clothes designers’ penchant for a cold shoulder top (don’t put holes in my clothes that shouldn’t be there) and the prevalence of acrylic tunic tops.
My wardrobe is full to bursting. There is a one-in-one-out rule for new items. As I grow older, I might not be wearing purple, but I am wearing colour. Teals, rich dark reds, saturated blues, burnt orange, cool greys. I run my fingers across the items there, remembering that ridiculous Burton jumper, and I smile.