I know, I know, everyone knows that women’s clothes sizes are a joke. Or at least, all women. Most men, I suspect, also have a notion of this from contact with any woman. At least any Western woman.
But why. This rant is courtesy of the day spent shopping. Granted in charity shops, because the pain of trying to get ethical clothing that I like is just too much to bear. Anyhow, yesterday I noticed that the last pair of jeans I had that fitted reasonably have started to develop a hole in an…unfortunate area. So we toured the shops of Bristol in search of jeans. And I sort of hover around a 12/14. If I got rid of the pot-bellied look that I tend to have I’d be safely in 12 territory. As it is I’m sometimes a 12, sometimes a 14. However, the laughable idea that I could, say, pick up a 12 and expect it to be on the snug size, and pick up a 14 and expect it to be a little large, well, it is just as I say, laughable.
There were 12s I couldn’t get my arse into. There were 14s that looked like I’d rented a denim tent. Many shops and brands later I walked away with 2 jeans and thankfully my sense of self confidence intact. A 12 and a 14. Yay. Now it’s time to donate the jeans that don’t really fit, and some other clothes I really don’t wear I think. Then someone else can play guess the size.