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| Someone in retail has been reading this! @ Amazon.com |
In an ideal world I would be a size 10. I wouldn’t have to call myself ‘an 11, really’ and would never cast a glance at a 12. I would also eat be able to eat Wagon Wheels unchecked- but I digress.
Rumour has it that some clever retailers have pipped me to the post with a trend called ‘vanity sizing’. By making clothes bigger, women are forced to buy smaller and thus emotionally connect with the shop in question. Having a fat day? Not anymore! The skinnier the tag, the fatter the profit margins - cha-ching!
To be frank, this Machiavellian marketing seems the stuff of urban legend. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against being duped into believing myself thinner – and will quite happily pay for the privilege. I’ve just yet to squeeze myself into an apocryphal 10. If anything, I think the high street has adopted a certain NAMA-like quality – a belt-tightening, pinch-inducing inability to make ends meet. It’s the classic example of ‘why give an inch, if it’s going to cost in fabric?’
Case in point – last week I purchased a size 16 guna in error at a certain Grafton Street store. Already at home and curious to see how it looked; I tried it on. It fit. I broke out the Sauvignon Blanc and turned up the Radiohead. This just couldn’t be right, could it? Who knows? Maybe denial isn’t a river in Africa after all. Or maybe, like Alice, I’ve been viewing my figure through the looking glass – a bit like those ‘magic mirrors’ in changing rooms.
But I’m not alone. Recently, a friend called me about a betrayal most foul. Two letters and an ampersand cheated her of a trusty size 14. “It wouldn’t zip!” she admitted shamefully. “It was stuck just below my boobs and that’s my thinnest part!” Another cohort refuses to buy clothes bigger than her reported size. This often results in shopping boycotts peppered by the words, “I won’t cave; ever!”
With such strong anecdotal evidence of body bashing, there has never been a more appropriate time for minimisation. Consider ‘vanity sizing’ a bit like an actor’s playing age - technically a 12, I can still pass for a 10; or with good lighting, an 8. Result. Now will someone please pass those Wagon Wheels.
