I was a fashion don't
Once upon a time, I was a hippie. I wore bells on my ankles, flowers in my hair, and long flowing skirts. (I drew the line at patchouli. That shit's nasty.)
Then, in 1996 or so, I reinvented myself. In those early post-hippie years, I had a fashion sense that could only be described as Born Yesterday. You know that movie where the guy just appears on Earth as a fully-grown, naked man? Yeah, like that.
It was the 90s; all a girl needed was black pants (maybe a size or two too small...small pants TOTALLY make you look thinner you know). I mastered the make-up and hair: metallic eye shadow, liner, dark matte lipstick, and twists of hair held in place with a dozen teeny tiny clips.
The problem: I'm a generous D type of gal. Shirts of the era were fitted and hit right at the waist. This was major challenge, especially coupled with my too-small black pants.
After college, I moved to NYC. Luckily, I had friends who were not recovering hippies. They graciously loaned me cast-offs left scattered on their beds.
One night, as we readied ourselves in my A-cup friend's apartment, my shirt got vetoed. After deliberation, my friends agreed on an A-cup-sized green T-shirt, with just a hint of sheen.
I squeezed into it, thinking that I could have been a factory product tester for this shirt. I absolutely pushed the limits of the tensile integrity of that cotton-nylon blend. Getting it over my boobs involved reaching in and adjusting my boobs back into correct boob position. I had to move each one around to make sure my nipples weren't cross-eyed, or one looking up, one down.
I no longer had breasts. I had a bosom, a bust. I had that large, firm, singular tube of mammaric flesh that belongs on the bodies of old timey nurses and housekeepers.
The shirt just barely grazed the waistband of my too small black pants. If I moved or managed a breath, I had a dreaded flesh tire.
"I feel self conscious," I complained.
"Don't! You look great!" they lied.
As we walked around the block, the words came at me from a dark corner of the sidewalk:
"Damn! That's the biggest ass I've ever seen on a white girl!" (I realize this has nothing to do with the shirt. I was so stuffed into my clothes that the guy had to pick something for his commentary.)
"I'm going home immediately."
"He totally wasn't talking about you!" ← Lie.
"He could have been talking about any one of us." ← Lies, lies, lies.
"It's a compliment!" Fuck the fuck off!
I went home and Hulked my way out of my clothes. Scratching at the deep purplish impression left around my waist, I breathed deeply for the first time in hours. I may have cried into my pillow, but I learned a lesson:
Don't listen to your girlfriends. They want to look better than you.