Tag Archives: personal

Fashion Regrets. I has them.

I was looking at faux leather leggings earlier and planning fall outfits in my head and I was taken over by the saddest nostalgia.

I was thinking about being a little baby fatty, in my midish twenties. I was a bit bigger than I am now and I remember I had some money for clothing.

If some of y’all are my age or older you may remember the leather pants Melissa Etheridge used to wear. Something like this, think jim Morrison with hips. I remember finding a pair of faux leather pants very similar to that and I tried them on.

At the time I almost started crying in the dressing room because I had a little belly and my big ass thighs and smallish butt.

So I was thinking about those pants and I wish I had bought them. Only because I would probably still have them and I want to wear them.

Right now at the size I am (small fat, round. Awesome belly) I want those pants. I want to wear them with a thin black tank top, with my little belly hanging over the low ass waistband. I want to wear them with my Docs or with the semi engineer style boots I have.

I feel like it would be perfect.

I am in mourning for all the clothes I didn’t think I could “pull off” because of my wee fat body. Because I believed that I would legitimately make people sick if they saw my belly and my muffin top (FUCK I loathe that term) or if it was clear that my stomach isn’t flat and my thighs not only touch they fucking cuddle while I walk.

I find it retroactively upsetting.

I am mourning the affordable underwire bikini tops, the booty shorts, the perfect fit sturdy twill zip front dresses, the pleated butt showing minis.

I am so sad that I was so ashamed of my fine ass chubby body I missed out on so much fashion awesome.

And now fast forward a bit more than a decade and I am seeing “vintage” (I think things should be older than a decade to be vintage but whatever) stuff that if it were in my size would be perfect and is just like stuff I had when it was all new.

I’m so sad.

And yet, I’m also scouring for these fashions and others because I’ve discovered that part of living in super health conscious Seattle means I have come to really enjoy traumatizing other people with my fatness.

For instance.

I was wearing one of my favorite things (this maxi skirt from Deb Shops in black of course) and a woman, maybe my age or a bit younger stopped me to let me know that someone had spanx on sale because she could see my “trouble” areas…you know my fat jiggling ass and was trying to do me a solid.

I smiled and told her politely that I like my jiggling trouble spot and I don’t need any Spanx.

I was really amused.

The thing is, I know that people tend to think I am way younger than I am but the fact is the older I get the fewer fucks I give.

The older I get the more amusement I get from the discomfort of other people in terms of my body. From the young ladies who were appalled at my furry armpits and unshaven legs to the friendly ladies offering advice about what’s flattering.

I just don’t care.

I want to spend my middle age looking precisely how I want to look.

Similarly I have been trying to refine my plans for body modification so I can start saving up.

Behold Maria Jose Cristerna.

 

I love her.

I love her.

If you don’t know who she is check her out on the internets.

I think she is one of the most beautiful human beings on the planet. She is honestly the epitome of looking however the fuck you want to me and I want grow up to give that few fucks.

I may not want her mods specifically but I want to reach my twilight years decorated and looking exactly how I please.

I wish someone could have told me way back then that I could in fact look how I want when i want. I wish someone would have told me that over and over again.

Sometimes I still have to tell myself. I still struggle on occasion with presenting myself the way I think I should versus how I want to.

Sometimes I lose faith in my own ability to support my need to look how the fuck I want to look.

Shit is hard but looking back at the young woman who so wanted to wear the things but was afraid to because OH NO FAT I think I can do it.

To that end I have my little stash of tattoo references, a list of a few more face holes I’d like punched in my dermis. I am learning that I can and should relearn how to sew in a more serious fashion.

This summer this is pretty much my look:

Dark lips and no fucks given.

Dark lips and no fucks given.

I’ve been experimenting with a few sheer items of clothing and trying to figure out layering when it is hot out. I haven’t been entirely successful but the evolution into an Evil Alien Nazgul Queen is happening.

And I will let it happen.

Even if it hurts sometimes.

Homo Out.

Welcome to my new thing y’all.

Here we are y’all.

Here is what I am doing here.

Recently I’ve realized several things that are a running theme in my life the last couple of years.

  1. Being a maker of things (written things, crocheted things, other mystery crafty things) means a lot to me on many levels.
  2. The number of fucks I give about how I am culturally inculcated to feeling about aging, my body and my looks has dwindled to negative 45.
  3. I needed a fresh spot to explore things.
  4. I was real tired of bloggers shit.

Those things happening at a time when I was already feeling some type of way about my previous litterbox mean this is happening.

So I’m just gonna start talking.

I’ve been doing this series over at XOjane for the past few weeks, I’ve been using both my poor skills and my passion for self care to try and help some folks get through it.

As I’ve been writing this series I am kind of amazed at how many of the attitudes I’ve shed over the years regarding what I do and don’t deserve and what is and is not okay for me to do or be interested in.

Once upon a time some of the shitty commentary from people who don’t like how I write would have just broken my heart. I would have bought into the idea that “the author” is the asshole to be made fun of thing and probably told Marianne I quit.

At this point though, I’ve heard all that.

I don’t particularly care. What I do care about more is in my own mind I feel like I’m doing some good and that’s awesome.

Also seeing how far I’ve really come in terms of learning to treat myself better.

Some of y’all might remember how much I angsted and wept over buying my beloved Oxblood Docs because they were expensive and I loved them.

Just lately as I’ve been learning to balance my writing life with the day job, and balance the writing things with each other I’ve been feeling down. I felt like I was/am doing something terribly wrong.

I’ve also realized I did a shitload of work to unlearn the whole concept of me “deserving” good treatment from myself or from others.

And then I ran into a brick wall.

I mentioned my deep love of and desire to just be a maker. I crochet, I used to do a lot of sewing. And then (as I am thinking of my stash of finished crocheted shawls) I realized I have a problem.

Somewhere in my early 20s when finances were dire I absolutely could not afford to have a hobby that didn’t involve free. I didn’t crochet, I didn’t buy clothes to tear apart or buy fabric. I didn’t buy books. I was at survival level brokeness.

During that period I decided somewhere in my subconscious that even if I did better financially being a maker of things that I might sell or give as gifts was not going to happen.

The part that fucks me up today is that I do have a hobby budget. I have a partner and other loved ones who support my obsession with being a maker but when I try to take that next step of setting up shop for physical items or entering a craft fair I freeze up and freak out.

There are a lot of messages that go through my head about this. The idea that if I fail or don’t sell I’ve gone and wasted money on my stupid ideas.

That if I do said thing even if it does sell it won’t really pay the bills so why the fuck.

Funny how the shit we think we have solved comes up again like a goddamn jack in the box.

Much like my years long struggles with learning to self care, learning to care for my body, learning to care for my hair this is something else I feel like I have to get through.

I have to struggle and remind myself I deserve to do shit that makes me happy. If I want to try and sell some arty shit, that’s okay too.

I want to say that if I can struggle through the depths of shit body image and through poverty driven disordered everything,  I fucking survived that and I am deeply invested in not turning 40 with this particular baggage.

To that end, there are some things I will probably talk about trying and failing at. Or the occasional win.

My current goal is to get at least two of my shawls photographed and ready for sale next weekend. Outside of really just wanting to unfuck my attitude about myself as a potential maker (note I don’t say artist, that is for reasons) I need to get through it.

I also really need to get going on my side hustles. I need a newer/more beefy laptop, I need to pay for myself and partner to go to AWP next year. And you know, life stuff.

I am glad I got that off my chest.

Welcome to Shannon has issues and is real over it.

Next time I want to talk about my one beautiful white hair on my head and some things about aging I was not expecting.

And thanks for reading y’all.

Homo Out.