Fat Lady in a Little Shirt

I went to a clothing swap.  This was a first for me.  The premise is pretty simple; show up with some clothes that you're done wearing and maybe you leave with some new treasures. It's like the grown up version of raiding your sister's (or in my case sisters') closet(s) and getting to keep whatever you find.

This has never been something that really appealed to me because I'm a bigger lady.  Trying on clothes has been such a traumatic experience over the years that the concept of doing this with others watching scared the bejeezus out of me.  What if I show up big hearted and too big bellied to leave with anything?  Then EVERYONE will know that I'm fat and I'll feel ashamed. Screw. That. Noise.

There were extenuating circumstances this time. Over the last couple of months, I've been super fortunate to get to know a group of people who are, hands down, the most loving supportive humans on the planet. One of these lovely ladies was hosting a clothing swap to celebrate her birthday. Nurturing that relationship and celebrating her birthday sounded amazing.  Humiliating myself in public?...Not so much.  But, I trust these friends.  I trust them with my heart and know that they would not suggest something that would bring me pain or shame.  Besides, these are some seriously body-positive people. So, I figure what the hell. You only live once, this time around, right?

The day before the swap, I spent  time digging through my closets.  It started out slowly, with only a silver dress that's a decade old.  Then, I got on a roll and ended up with a respectable pile of contributions. Some cute shirts, a skirt, a couple of adds and ends, and a tshirt that deserves a good radical feminist back to carry it.  Once everything was laundered, I packed it up into a brown paper bag, added a dozen cookies for good measure and set out for an adventure.

When I arrived, the party was already in full swing.  A handful of ladies half-dressed, trying on clothes.  Some people were talking, drinking mimosas and enjoying the environment, while others squealed with delight over new finds.  Greeted by the warmest, kindest souls, my discomfort dissipated significantly just by being there. Kindred spirits, indeed.  If only we had kindred dress sizes.  sigh...

I found a great spot to hang out and visit with some of the other guests.  It was really fun watching people get SO EXCITED to try on someone else's hand-me-downs.  The center of the room became of veritable catwalk of goodness. I plopped myself in the floor and watched the show.

The environment and conversations were great, but I still felt too timid to look through the clothes.  One of the things that comes with a lifetime of fatness is an understanding that our bodies don't fit because we're lazy/greedy/glutinous and as punishment, we don't deserve (fill in the blank love/nice things/kindness).  Can't have your cake, eat it too and expect to have cute clothes.  Years of this brain training makes feeling unworthy a major hurdle to so many social situations.  Even as a well-adjusted healthy adult, these thoughts still creep in. 

After a while the crowd thinned out a little. Some people hit the balcony for coffin nails, while others hit the kitchen for mimosa refills and cookies.  It was time to suck it up and try to participate.  I had been secretly eyeing a houndstooth checked shirt. It was a little buried, but it looked cute and stretchy.  I flipped trough the shirts on top.  S, S, M, XS... Shit.  The houndstooth shirt is a M. But it looks really stretchy.  I decide to slide it on over my outfit. It's definitely super tight, but not sausage casing tight and it feels oddly delicious.  I check it out in the full-length mirror hanging on the balcony door. I think it might be awesome.  It's  SO not something I would normally choose, but it's got a really neat quality to it.

Emboldened by the find, I try it on without the safety of another shirt on under it.  It looks and feels even better.  I modeled for the woman who brought the shirt.  She gets really excited about it and then tells me how awesome it looks on someone with such a vastly different body type. At one point, she specifically addressed the way my fat looks in her shirt.  

There was a time in my life, when someone noticing my belly fat, let alone commenting on it, would have transformed me into a blubbering pile of tears and self-loathing. I suppose it's that contrast that heightened this experience.  There was no sadness or shame.  Rather, her comments felt like the pure validation. See, I've always thought I was pretty and valuable and worth seeing.  She  called me fat and pretty in the same breath.  I have rarely in my life ever felt so seen.