I often find myself walking into a store and find lots of… nothing. Because somebody somewhere decided two things:
1) A woman who has the size of a teenager and the curves of a grown woman cannot exist. But I do exist and the only reason you cannot see me it’s because I am 158cm short (and I will not tell you how much it is in feet and inches because I am European and therefore a snob).
2) If something is comfortable, it can’t be sexy. It works the other way round, too. If something is sexy, it can’t be comfortable.
I am slim. I also have curves and love them. In fact, I’ve never felt so good about myself and I want to look good, too.
But somebody decided that sexy clothes need to have parts that scratch, pin, move around, cut into my body, are plain uncomfortable, and sometimes even painful to wear.
Why do I have to choose? Why can’t clothes feel as good to look at as they feel on my skin? Why do they have to make our lives miserable when we should be feeling wonderful?
Why can’t I feel good not only in my skin but also in what is on it?
Faced with the choice between sexy and comfy, I go with comfy. Always. My well-being and the way I feel in my clothes are of so much more importance than some idiot’s notion of what is sexy.