Caterpillar Contemplations

"What the caterpillar calls the end, the rest of the world calls a butterfly." Lao Tzu


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Designers be damned!

Fashion. I’m over it!
It’s definately up there on the things I like least in the world.
What better way is there to make an otherwise relatively confident woman (albeit a few kilograms over the desired skeletan formation) feel bad about herself?
I know – lets go shopping! Lets fit some gorgeously cut fabrics in scrumptious colours and slip them over those voluptuous curves. Ba Bowwww! <-Think game show 'got it wrong' noise.

Clearly I’m in the wrong industry – yet again. I’m betting there is a multitude of women, who have tits or perhaps an ass, or maybe some thighs who just don’t fit into the clothes hanger designed pieces of loincloth on display.
There is a market – not for the plus 14 sizes – thank you very much. But for women with shape GODDAMMIT.
I’ve got boobs and I’m proud of them. These amazing devices gave my son a damn good start in life! They at least deserve the priviledge of bras that fit comfortably and clothes which don’t make me look like a medievil barmaid.

But what shits me most about this issue, is not the sizes available. Clothing stores actually have far-reaching clothes racks that extend to size 16 or 18. What really burns my boiler and makes my eyeballs sizzle is the fact that the designs they have on display (no matter the size) only suit people with a skeletal frame. Looks friggin fantastic on them. I’m not doubting the designers finesse to make women who have no shape, LOOK like they have shape. What I’m doubting is ANY designers ability to take a woman with curves and give her clothes to brag about.

And this is not about weight, thankye very much! Although that in itself deserves a suitably acid rant about societies imposing views and the detrimental affects of commercialism on women’s self esteem.
No – this is purely about the clothes which are meant to drop from the shoulders, accentuating a subtle A or B cup to titilating effect, which, even in a size 12, drop like a primarly school pinafore off C cup boobs or bigger.

And what is with ruffles? I don’t need frigging ruffles. I HAVE BOOBS. Boobs that have their own divine curvature and don’t need ruffling up!

Don’t get me started on puffy sleeves. Aside from the fact that they well and truely died in the 80’s and there is absolutely no way they could be made hip again, they make the majority of women look like merigues or wannabe grid-iron players.

I want several clothes chains to focus on the curves of women. All the curves! I want a shop that is divided by how well the clothes fit our bodies. I want a section for those with bigger hips. A section for those with boob-zookers. A section for those especially tall. Or those who have larger arms (because they work out – or not).

I want designers to honor women. To love women. To love the fact that they get older and their metabolism goes a little awire.

It can be done. I know it can be done. I have a few items of clothing in my sparse wardrobe that actually make me feel ‘okay’ when I’m going out. And by a few, I mean, one winter outfit, one summer outfit and one I’m not quite summer or winter outfit.

And please, don’t mention this quaint little shop here or there that does fantastic clothes for shapely women (ok, you can mention it ‘after’ you’ve said you understand). I don’t want a quaint shop in fucking Brunswick. I want to be able to walk down the street, in a nice convenient way and go to some easy-to-find shops that sell clothes that look good – on me!

The thing is … I need a pick-me-up sometimes. I occassionally want to go out and spend money on clothes and items that are just for me, to make me feel good.
I want to climb into some clothes when I go shopping and say “God damn, I look good.”

Instead, I walk home dejected. I pick up some chocolate, wine, a fresh book or gardening magazine and wallow in self-pity.

Stuff marketing, I don’t read trashy magazines for the fashion pages. I don’t give a shit about societies perceptions. And I don’t watch models on the catwalk. Quite often I’m fine with my weight, with it’s heaviness here and pudginess there. The fault lies with the designers and makers of clothes. Designers need to create clothes that honor mothers or ‘will be’ mothers and that celebrate the renaissance.

Give me a wardrobe that accentuates my good bits and I’ll give you a changed woman!

With time, money and patience, I’ll start making my own clothes again. Just need a decent pattern or two.


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Sometimes I don’t want to go home.

Sometimes I don’t want to go home.

I don’t want to go home to a full house. To conversations and questions. To cats meowing and a newly acquired dog. To dirty dishes or divulging my day.

I don’t want to go home to job lists, to do lists or shopping lists. To cooking dinner, and reading bedtime stories. To homework, emails and missed calls. To excercise or abandon.

I don’t want to go home to my wardrobe of ill-fitting clothes. To my bookcase of books I’ve read or those I’ve bought on a whim that stare at my blatant ignorance. To my bed that teases about restful sleep.

I don’t want to go home to my music or movies. To my humming computer of distraction. To my paper trail of disorganisation. To my diary of incomplete tomorrows.

I don’t want to go home to my should ofs and would ofs. To my ifs and maybes. To my unfinished thoughts. To my unfulfilled resolutions. To my expectation.

Sometimes I don’t want to go home to me.