Fat Arms

The people who design clothing for plus size girls are not trying.  I kinda wonder if anybody designs them at all.  I suspect that tired designers already exhausted from making marvelous things for the socially acceptable sizes grab an idea from a skinny shirt and toss the standard giant pillowcase cutting standards to it and call it a day.  I understand.  I get tired and cranky at the end of my day, too.  But I get even more tired and cranky looking at the clothes they expect us to wear.  Like florals and pastels and stripes in all the wrong places.  Somebody please shove me off the side of a ship.  Please.  I am not 80.  I get that some women can pull off some of that, but I would prefer not to look like somebody’s garden got up and walked out the gate.  And please, for the love of the women who have born children and found their boobs exploding from the pressure, please stop placing words over the ladies.  It’s not like we need something to help guys find ’em.  And we certainly don’t need people trying to make out the words that have turned into a new, stretchy font.  

Now, I’ll admit that perhaps some of my words are harsh.  My fashion style is plain, and that will not change.  I like solid colors and classic cuts and clothing that makes me sigh, not SIGH.  And I do like some of those things.  On other women.  Not me.  Period.  End of the Trilogy.  

I was shopping a couple of weekends ago, and the whole arm situation annoyed me for the thousandth time.  I hate my arms.  Just.  Ugh.  Clothing never helps.  All the shirts are either turtle neck with long sleeves, or no sleeves at all.  I hear that there are some T shirts out there, but I can never find one that doesn’t make me gag.  The rest of the shirts have this barely there sleeve that drives me crazy.  And the material they make our clothes out of?  Well, that’s a rant for another day.   

Can we get some fat girls out there designing GOOD clothing, please?  Do designers need actual, real models to work on?  Maybe ones with attitude who won’t be afraid to tell them that it ain’t working for them?  I mean, there should be a rule that if you wouldn’t wear it, then you shouldn’t be putting it on another female’s body.  But that’s what happens.  As for the guy designers, they should look at it as making sure their Mama/Sister/Wife/Friend looks crazy amazing when they leave the house, and not a disaster. 

I realized as I was pushing the cart through the too close clothing racks while my four kids did acrobatic stunts off the sides, that something had to change.  Now, I am working on my arms, but for the moment I am having to be careful.  More exercise bothers my migraines.  Cutting calories only makes my weight worse, not better.  And gives me migraines.  (Don’t ever believe the lie that fat people need to just eat less.  I am happy for the people who can cut calories and the weight just slides off…good for you.  Doesn’t work for all of us.)

We watched Moana for the severalinth time, and as I was sitting there working on some art while I sang off key with the characters, I took a second look at Moana’s grandma, who is the island crazy lady, in her words.  She has fat arms, if you haven’t watched the movie.  And she doesn’t care.  She doesn’t cover them.  She doesn’t sit around whining and moping.  She doesn’t try to eat less coconuts and lift rocks.  She just is her gorgeous self.

Grandma is the best character in that entire movie.  Other than the island lady.  Oh, her I get.  Have you ever had your heart stolen?  (Post for another time, Aems…moving on…)

I’m still going to work on my arms.  I’m still working on finding what food work for my body, and I’m still working out.  But I’m also working on loving my arms for what they are right now.  Because looks don’t define me, and they don’t generate everlasting happiness.  So what if I die an old lady with large arms?  My arms don’t make me a good or bad person.  My arms don’t make a difference in what kind of books I write.  My arms don’t mean that I cannot be a good mother.  

Today I’m going to do what I never do and wear a sleeveless shirt.  I’m going to channel my inner Grandma and not give a rip what anybody thinks.  I think I’ve lost since established that I’m a crazy lady in my own rights.  Which, by the way, is another rant post to come.  Why do we women call ourselves a hot mess?  Why do we feel like we have to portray ourselves in that way?  Why are women who are on top of things less loved?   Oh, the rants.  All the rants.  

Arms are arms.  And I hope your arms, no matter what shape or size, have a good week. 

Live Bravely, Love Strongly, -AEM

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