Vanity Sizing

Went straight to Saks after school today for a new bag and a new pair of Sevens since mine are inexplicably (OK, that's a lie) a little snug.

Knowing that it will take at least a month of zero Christmas cookies before I shimmy gracefully back into my normal size, I need a little tiding over. I handed over most of my Christmas money in exchange for the biggest bag I saw. My Vegas chums, I know, will insist on scoffing and making rather boring remarks about carry-ons and Mary Poppins, but these are women who have never left their apartment at 7 a.m to hit the gym, the office, the power lunch, the after-work cocktails, the after-cocktail dinner and the grocery store before returning to their apartments just past midnight. Without a car.

Every smart New York woman truly keeps her life in her Birken. Where's my lipstick? In my Birkin! Where's my running shoes? In my Birkin? Where's my dissertation? In my Birkin! And every really smart New York woman knows that THE BIGGER YOUR BAG, THE THINNER YOU ARE. It is an undeniable axiom of truth in the same golden vein as water freezes at 32 degrees Fahrenheit and the more money you have to blow, the less likely it is that you will find anything you like.

I moved on to the designer denim area of the store and begrudingly grabbed my favorite cut in the next size up. In the dressing room I was surprised that the jeans seemed a bit...loose. What the...did I not nearly bust the button last night on my pair at home? And did I not die just a little on the inside when I couldn't fully sit down on my bed with my jeans on? What was going on? I huffed for a split second and rang the bell for the salesgirl to bring me another pair in my usual size.

"Isn't that the best?" she said from the other side of the door as she handed me the next size up. While I couldn't see her face, I imagined her nose scrunching up and her eyes twinkling as she said this to me. There was that warm cameraderie in her voice that magically happens between two women who are perfect strangers when it comes to matters of jackasses, mother-in-laws, and going down (or up) a jean size. Such exchanges, sadly, are rare today for me. I'm forced to get my fix by rewinding and replaying certain beauty parlor scenes in Steel Magnolias.

The jeans slipped on beautifully. Unless I sleptwalked around the block about, oh say, 10,000 times last night in my sleep, I thought to myself...something is very very wrong.

Which brings me to my next point: vanity sizing

While the marketing Einsteins behind the rack will never admit it, there is a quiet conspiracy going on across the country. Tiny white tags with misleading information are being sewn into pants, skirts, jeans, and dresses. The genuiuses concerned with the bottom line know that studies have shown that American women are more likely to part with their moola when they fit into a smaller-than-expected size of something, anything. Vanity sizing cannot be merely written off as just another duplicitous maneuver part and parcel to capitalisim. It is impossible not to imagine something a little more sinister.

Think about it. In the name of a buck, someone has gone and changed the rules. It used to be that the fit of our jeans were a reliable marker of where we stood when it came to pounds and inches. Putting on our old jeans from college was a trusted method of gauging just how long ago we fell off the wagon. And--doing so was much less humilating or harsh than stepping on the scale, and allowed for a little sensible rationalization.

I, like any woman, would go through the normal battery of excuses when my jeans didn't fit:
Did they shrink due to repeated washings?
Have my underwear grown thicker?
Am I just bloated?
Denial of course only ever lasted for so long and soon I had to face the cold hard truth: abstinence from eating anything that may qualify as good and doubling my efforts at the gym were the only options. And, after many miles, and many paltry salads and (seemingly) many sober weekends, my prize was fitting back into my jeans.

Now, the free market place, which is more than happy to feed our hunger for quick fixes has made it entirely too easy on all of us. I can pop over to Gap or Nordstrom and voila, I'm a 26 again. I can wait one month to a half a year--all the while eating cake and kicking it on the couch--knowing that my favorite designer will increase the girth and decrease the size on the tag of the very jeans that are hibernating in my closet. At first this sounds dreamy, yes. But then you go to Europe for Spring Break. And, as you are trying to get your calf in the hot black pants you found on sale at a little Milan boutique surrounded by svelte Italians who are eating cheese with a little pasta sprinkled on top, you realize damn the truth hurts.


Dear Mr. President Elect-I think that we need is a little less change.
Healthcare wouldn't be nearly as big of an issue if our jeans told us the truth. We wouldn't spend money on food full of high fructose corn syrup and trans fats if it meant eventually we would have to sit in Micky Ds naked.