Most of the time, I sort of “tune out” the ads on the right side of my Facebook page. I do this because, even though the ads are selected specifically for me by the FB E-fairies based on my surfing history, the selections often feel ham-handed and more than a little “off.” For example, if I linger over a photo of a dachshund puppy (a particular weakness of mine), the next time I sign on there will be a vertical string of entreaties for dog formal wear, canine past life regression therapy and chew toy apps for my iPhone. Hence my starboard-side ad blindness.
But I saw an ad on Facebook’s eastern seaboard not long ago that really bugged me. It was for “plus sized skinny jeans.” Now, as a, trans-woman of a certain, “non-diminutive stature,” (I described myself that way recently after losing a test of wills with a bag of birthday cake flavored Oreos), I have loathed the term, “plus sized skinny jeans,” since first encountering it years ago. It insults my intelligence and it’s adjective abuse. Moreover, it assumes that I’m too fragile emotionally to accept that I’m not really a body double for Kate Moss. (To be honest, I realize I have an egg shell Id, but I dislike having that steaming pile of reality thrown in my face when someone’s trying to sell me something.)
That’s why I generally tell people that I’m not fat, I just have “a gravity disorder.” I came up with that term years ago when I was writing professionally about the space program. Even though the Moon has roughly one-sixth the gravity of Earth, there are spots on its surface where it is measurably greater. Those locations are called “mass concentrations,” or “mass cons.” Planners of the manned moon landing missions had to take pains to avoid them as landing sites because of the extra fuel that would have been necessary to launch out of such spots and return home.
Thereafter, whenever I weighed myself and the scale showed a yeasty movement in body weight, I would make a mental note to move it away from the “mass con” that must have sprung up unexpectedly underneath my bathroom. I loved the fact that the planet itself might be to blame for my weight gain and not my fondness for Hanover sourdough pretzels.
But I digress. I realize that marketers – particularly those who flog women’s wear - are endlessly creative in how they appeal to our egos while still maintaining some tenuous connection to truthful advertising. I long ago came to terms with, “petite queen sizes,” or “junior full-figured.” But “plus sized skinny jeans?” C’mon. Can’t we all agree on one universal truth – if you are plus sized you aren’t “skinny.” You are the opposite of “skinny.” In my case, “skinny” and I can’t even wave knowingly at each other from across the parking lot. If “skinny’s” face showed up as missing on a milk carton, I couldn’t offer clue one as to its whereabouts. It’s been several presidential administrations since I tested positive for even trace amounts of “skinny.”
I wrestle with the alligators of body image same as every woman whose dress size isn’t smaller than Pi (insert your own “fondness for pie,” pun here). I rue the tummy I see between me and my feet. I detest the fact that my front and rear are approaching identical proportions. And I wish I could waltz into a dress store, pick something off the Zero (or even Eight or 10) rack, walk straight to the cashier and never have to have another hostage negotiation with a full-length mirror in a changing room. (“This will look fantastic if I never raise my arms,” “Maybe an extra-wide belt would help,” or, “Make a mental note: stop eating pasta at least six months before wearing this dress…”)
I know all of this. I live and breathe it. Just please give me credit for a smidgen of smarts. You don’t have to go overboard with the honesty. I’m not looking for, “tight pants for fat asses,” or “Wide Load Separates.” Pick something else. Call them, “fun-sized jeans,” like the suppository-sized candy bars they sell at Halloween. Throw us a bone. Please.
How ironic is it that men, the gender least concerned with the psychology of fashion, hit the mother-load of comforting, non-descriptive candor a few decades back when clothing companies started selling, “relaxed fit,” pants for guys who needed, “a skoosh more room.” It was the epitome of flattering, honesty-adjacent advertising. The pants makers recognized that Baby Boomer men were getting heavier as they aged, but that they also weren’t ready to admit they needed official fat clothes. Relaxed fit sounded like the pants themselves were maturing in perfect step with the men who wore them. The jeans no longer sweated the small stuff. They were relaxed. Plus, for men with ego issues over another kind of size measurement in their pants, needing more room in that zip code seemed like an implied badge of honor.
Actually, I think I may have come up with a like-minded solution for female fashions. Instead of trying to find kinder synonyms for feminine bumps and bulges, let’s just do away with every size above and below a Two. Every woman in the world will be able to state honestly that she is a Two. Even better, millions of women will get the added bonus of saying that they lost five or six dress sizes literally overnight!
I understand this might get a tad confusing. So we should also a adopt a color-code to make it easier for women to determine which Two they actually were. A red Two might mean you’re really a 14. A Blue Two could put you in the 10 family. Yellow means you’re the dress size formerly known as Six. Yes, it’s a thin deception and needing it says more about our own insecurity than anything else. But let she who has never argued with a cheesecake in the middle of the night over how many pieces constitute a single serving, cast the first stone. Amen.