Cover Up

When you try on new clothes, what comes to mind? Maybe it’s the thickness of the fabric, how long you’ve been waiting to have it, or possibly a touch of buyer’s remorse.

For me, the fit comes first. Not the ensemble but the way the seams sit against my sides. Is there space, or am I cinched? Do the sleeves end above or below the elbow, and how square or slouched are the shoulders? While each element might influence what I can wear with the new arrival, truthfully, they determine how I’ll feel.

Clothing is a master of misdirection. I adore my wardrobe because it covers my distaste for what’s underneath. An outfit can flatter, shape and frame, but your body cannot be contorted. Inevitably, it’s easier to find clothing you like than to fix the cause of your concern, tapering over the cracks. Though, no matter how hard you try to avoid being critical of yourself, eventually, you’ll be reminded.

Whether you take your top off and feel more self-conscious than seductive or try to squeeze into a suit that seems shrunken, unless you look after yourself, the bitter taste will be back. In my case, I track my weight by the fit of my trousers. It’s a while since I last tucked my T-shirt and struggled from both sides to get the clasp to meet, but there are few better indicators that you’ve been indulging.

While I’ve only endured the experience of attempting to lose weight, I’ve met plenty of people who’d like a little more, in the right places, of course. The thing is, no matter how flawless others think you are, you’ll always find faults. No one examines the intricacies of our bodies like ourselves, pinching and pulling at loose skin to imagine how different we might look if we took the time to address our concerns.

The longer I contemplate it, the more I despise the thought of spending a lifetime detesting my body shape. Meanwhile, complete acceptance of my appearance feels equally futile. The solution is somewhere in between, and I’ll continue to cover up for now, though my focus is on fixing my faults.