Along with everything else, I envision myself as one of the great undiscovered fashion stylists of our time. Being the relic that I am, and the self-proclaimed arbiter of good taste, and that I have frequently been labelled "all talk and no action" I can pretty much say whatever I want. Slowly but surely I am closing my ears when that nagging childhood voice leaps in criticising every choice I make.
Gaining self confidence is tricky when most of one's developmental stages have already been achieved. Still, it is a battle I choose to fight. And I can hear the snide chuckling in the background. Hopefully there will be enough "big words" in this post so that those saboteurs will be completely confused. Anyway, I like to tell myself that I am gaining ground. At least I know my choices are mine.
As a young lady I kind of missed out on fashion. I was (and am to this day) the quintessential Fat Girl. I cannot remember buying clothes off the rack; I sped past the available sizes in area department stores quite rapidly. Luckily for me, Mommy Dearest was an accomplished seamstress and so I did have something of a wardrobe.
Skirts were required at church, of course, and at school too for most of my adolescence. The dress code was relaxed for my final two years of high school. These years were the transition from hosiery to panty hose. Both were nightmares for fat girls. Hosiery required girdles and garters and twisting stockings over bulging knees. Panty hose could be sliced in two: one side of one pair yanked up on the right. The other side from the other pair yanked up on the left. A tight squeeze but at least the crotch landed in the right place. When a run or snag appeared, the damaged leg, so to speak, could be changed out for a leg from one of the remaining cut up pairs.
Runs were the death knell for stockings and panty hose. Clear nail polish or hair spray could sometimes halt the progression of the run. Or the ruined leg could be twisted even further so the (runned? ran?) area with the run was positioned on the inside of one's leg and would be further camouflaged by taking very small steps. In any case a good girl, a nice girl, a stylish girl did NOT let herself be caught with runs in her stockings. Which is why I've been so surprised to see photos like this:
Gaining self confidence is tricky when most of one's developmental stages have already been achieved. Still, it is a battle I choose to fight. And I can hear the snide chuckling in the background. Hopefully there will be enough "big words" in this post so that those saboteurs will be completely confused. Anyway, I like to tell myself that I am gaining ground. At least I know my choices are mine.
As a young lady I kind of missed out on fashion. I was (and am to this day) the quintessential Fat Girl. I cannot remember buying clothes off the rack; I sped past the available sizes in area department stores quite rapidly. Luckily for me, Mommy Dearest was an accomplished seamstress and so I did have something of a wardrobe.
Skirts were required at church, of course, and at school too for most of my adolescence. The dress code was relaxed for my final two years of high school. These years were the transition from hosiery to panty hose. Both were nightmares for fat girls. Hosiery required girdles and garters and twisting stockings over bulging knees. Panty hose could be sliced in two: one side of one pair yanked up on the right. The other side from the other pair yanked up on the left. A tight squeeze but at least the crotch landed in the right place. When a run or snag appeared, the damaged leg, so to speak, could be changed out for a leg from one of the remaining cut up pairs.
Runs were the death knell for stockings and panty hose. Clear nail polish or hair spray could sometimes halt the progression of the run. Or the ruined leg could be twisted even further so the (runned? ran?) area with the run was positioned on the inside of one's leg and would be further camouflaged by taking very small steps. In any case a good girl, a nice girl, a stylish girl did NOT let herself be caught with runs in her stockings. Which is why I've been so surprised to see photos like this:
This one is from the Sartorialist but Zana Bayne favors this look also. And, I amaze myself sometimes, I don't hate it. It makes me wish I could do my teens and twenties over again. Im-poss-ee-blay! I know. I also can't help but wonder (thanks, Carrie) what their mothers must think.
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