Fat girl slim

I think it’s fair to say that I have more than a slight penchant for shopping. More than a keen interest in fashion. OK, I feckin LOVE clothes, alright? And I love shopping even more now I’ve lost weight and am, what the high street would call, a ‘normal size’ (funny how they get most of my size in to sell, when actually the average size of a UK woman is a size 14-16, but hey). Most things will fit me and (when I’m not having a pot-bellied-pig day) most shapes will flatter me.

But recently, my shopping experiences (and there haven’t been many) have turned on their head. Not only are the clothes now picked from the other end of the rack, but my mood has done a u-turn as well. Before, when I was a size 14-16 I used to get incredibly frustrated (OK, seething with rage) when I heard little princesses in the other cubicle whinging about needing a size 8 but there wasn’t one, or that they loved these size 10 jeans but they’re just too baggy around the arse.

There was I, frantically wiggling, huffing and puffing as I desperately tried to squeeze my behind into a monstrous size 16 pair of bootcuts – their comments only served to make my ass feel like it was the size of the cubicle itself. Oh, isn’t life terrible that you can’t find a size 10 for your stupid bony limbs. I feel so fucking sorry for you that I’ll just ram this doughnut down my throat, yeah?

But – and I hate to be the worm that turned, and I really don’t want to sound like I’m bragging or that I’m one of those horrible little cows – now I’m seeing it from the other side. The other day I was trying on a skirt. I went for my usual, default size 12 (I always try a 12 first on the bottom because you can never tell with some shops – and I still have a meaty behind). I needed the 10. Fair dos. It happens sometimes. But that was too big.

This floored me. In the back of my head, I knew that your size in high street shops vary widely what with cuts, fabrics, etc. But I’ve *never* needed an 8 on the bottom before. Once I bought a size 8 jacket and some size 8 vests because I wanted them uber tight (slut!) but that was it. Poking my head out of the cubicle for the second time, I mumbled to the lady about getting me another size. “An 8?” she practically yelled. “Yeah sure!” I blushed, absorbing the collective seething that was going on in cubicles around me.

Likewise, in Topshop the other day, a size 10 shirt was too big around the back. I asked the assistant’s opinion on whether she thought it mattered (I didn’t want to buy the 8). She looked at me as if I was lucky that the 10 was kinda baggy. I felt like I was rubbing it in.

It was like when my mate got an A and two Bs at A Level and cried. I’d got crap grades and was mildly peeved that she was distraught over some excellent grades. I’d’ve killed for a B, let alone two of the blighters! But, as she explained, they weren’t her best. She could do better – it wasn’t *normal* for *her* to get one B let alone two. I realised this just before I retook my A Level English. I’d got a C and knew I could do better. I’d never got anything above  B before, and (because I finally had the right attitude and was concentrating on my own performance) I came away with one of the top marks in the country that year.

It’s the same with sizes. We should all stop comparing themselves to others, being snooty about those who are smaller or bigger. It doesn’t matter! It’s all about what’s ‘normal’ for *us*. The changing room is not a battle field; it should be a place of glittering wondrousness.