Okay, I am what you might call pleasantly plump.  By no means a size two, or even a size six, I have some extra meat on my bones.  But that doesn’t mean that I don’t like looking good.  But what it does mean is that I have grown to hate shopping.

Remember the days when a size 14 was a size 14, not a size 12?  Or a large was actually large,  not walking doll size?  I remember those days and I long for them again.  It’s hard enough being overweight without walking into a shop to get a new outfit and leaving the store an hour later, crying.  Really.  A word to the wise all you designers out there: wanna make women buy more clothes?  Then make a size 16, not a size 12.  I try on pants and they are a size 12 and fit?  I’m taking them home!  I have to squeeze my butt into a size 16 and can’t get them zippered up?  You can be sure that I’m not going to want to go up to a size 18.  And I leave feeling bad about myself and wanting chocolate.

And don’t even get me going on bras.  I don’t understand how I can fit into a 38DD, 36DD and 40D depending on the bra style. Now, I’m no math wiz, but isn’t 38 inches always 38 inches?  If so, then why are all the sexy 38 inch bras way too small?  I honestly don’t get it.  And I’m getting sick of my granny braziers.

When my husband goes shopping this is how it goes: he walks into the store, sees something he likes, finds his size and walks out of the store.  No trying on, no comparing sizes, nothin’.  In and out.  I’d love to shop like that.  But since I currently have jeans ranging from size 11 to 16 in my closet, I have to try everything on.  He couldn’t understand why I would go out shopping, be gone for hours, and come home empty-handed and miserable.  Then I took him with me one day.  After four hours of me trying clothes on and showing him each piece, we left and he bought me some jewelery.  Now he understands.