The day I lied to a shop assistant
I’m 5’2” and wear a 12-14 Australian women’s size dress. I’ve been skinnier, I’ve felt fatter, I don’t weigh myself so I couldn’t tell you the kilograms of fat that hang around my bones, or name my BMI. I don’t wish to know these things (it’s not denial, I’m just not interested).
As a child ballet dancer I developed an eating disorder (no food all day, binge, vomit, rinse, repeat) but largely got over that in my early twenties. Though my relationship with food still remains tenuous, my anxieties manifesting in weird eating habits, food hoarding and the constant fear of “off” food.
I have curves. I’m happier with my body now than I have ever been and, though I probably weigh more than I ever have, I’ve been fitter than ever before too (though admittedly not at the moment). My husband tells me everyday that I’m beautiful (and means it) and that helps.
On Friday afternoon, I ran into a retailer in the centre of Hobart, hoping to quickly find, try and purchase a new dress to wear to my husband’s exhibition opening that night. I tried on two dresses; a cream and black structured number (which I bought) and a more slinky, blue jersey dress that clung to every curve (and bump and lump), upon trying the latter on I decided it fit great, but that I didn’t have the right underwear to wear it with so I’d leave without it. It could have looked fabulous.
As I left the change room the young (blonde, thin) shop assistant asked me how I went, “Fine!”, I said, “They both fit great”. Pause. And I looked her right in the eye and lied.
I lied and I didn’t miss a beat.
I said, “I don’t have the confidence to pull off a figure hugging dress like the blue one though”.
I lied and she looked me up and down and sighed in sympathy and understanding “Awww”.
I left the store, after purchasing the (fabulous, by the way) cream and black number, but couldn’t stop thinking about what I had said to that unsuspecting young woman.
Why did I lie?
Because somewhere in the back of my brain a voice said, soft and low, that I need to justify my body being in ‘that’ dress. That I couldn’t just say no. That I had to point out the flaws of my curvy size 12-14 self and admit (lie) that I just couldn’t wear it (what a shame! Awww!), because my fat might jiggle, or my belly might curve a little to much on the profile, because my bottom, though encased in restricting shape wear, might have a couple of dimples. And that would be offensive. Offensive to other people, the people at the exhibition, the shop assistant, unknown others.
I’m sorry that for a second my brain (and my body) bought into existing fashion dictates, the ones that say we should make excuses for our bodies; hide them, hate them. We publicly denounce our arses, our boobs, our legs (too short, too long, too pale) because that’s what we are expected to do. It’s normal. It’s normal to talk about weight in terms of how much we want to lose, it’s normal to “work off” every calorie and buy dresses too small in anticipation of starving ourselves to fit into them.
I’m sorry I lied to her. I want to go back and tell her “actually I’d look bangin’ in that dress, but I liked the other one better”, I wont, but next time I might.
