I am ever so thrilled to host this outstanding guestblog by Poliana, the ultrarad scooterist pictured on the left (amazing photo by Damon Landry), about a new option in the search for fat-friendly riding gear. It’s nearly enough to make me want a scooter myself, but I live in Metro Boston and would fear for my life. To those of you braver than I! -L

The question of where to find motorcycle and scooter riding gear for plus-sized women has come up more than a few times in the Fatshionista LiveJournal community (click here and here for two examples). Each time, the best solution has been to spring for custom-made gear, which can be prohibitively expensive and time-consuming for the average rider. Very few companies will create custom riding gear — those that do, command a high price. And unless the rider can visit their store, this means e-mailing some measurements and hoping for the best. This process goes something like this: place an order, wait a few weeks, try on the gear (assuming it’s not lost in the mail), send it back for some adjustments, wait a few more weeks for the alterations to be done, and then riding season is over.

Riding gear is sometimes available off the rack in larger sizes for men, but it can be hard to find, especially in extended sizes. As a woman who has been fat all of my life, I of course have purchased clothes in the mens department. I can take ill-fitting street clothes and “make it work” by not zipping a coat over my bust, cuffing up too-long sleeves, or wearing a mens’ shirt as a tunic dress. That’s not the case with riding gear. Because of the position of potentially life-saving armor and panels of abrasion-resistant fabric, good fit is of utmost importance. That being said, women riders of all sizes often make do with mens gear as a last resort. It beats riding with no gear, or even worse, not riding at all.

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I walked into a commonly-loathed fatshion store and tried on the 2 bras offered to me. They came in black and beige with polyester all over. Struggling to squish my tits into one, then the other cup was like playing chicken with the fat kid on top. It just so happened that of the two options available to me, only one option fit somewhat acceptable and so I walked out with a beige monstrosity big enough to fit on a toddler’s head.

I have been fighting with the bra industry for acceptable support since I started developing torpedo tits in the fourth grade. Back then it was ‘fuck it I’ll wear a t-shirt” and the occasional check-in from a classmate. Ever had an older kid try to snap a bra strap you didn’t have? It’s actually more embarrassing than later when I got snapped by an actual bra strap on my back. Granted this is steeped in misogyny and gender expectations that are screwed up and worthless as-is, I still felt the pressure to holster up and get my tits further up my body than gravity allowed.

By high school I was what I thought to be a DDD cup. This lasted through several bouts of anorexia and bulimia causing my front end to topple over my wasting bottom end more than once. I had an aching back, an aching butt, an aching body. Then I gained weight and everything balanced out. I went to college, went to my professional life, bought some femme attire and started hunting for a good bra fitting that told me how to properly hoist the flab in front to make me look like Wonder Woman. That’s when I found out I was a 42 F/G/H depending on the brand.

Cool.

Damn.

I’m fucking huge, no? Then I found out lots of boob-toting folk have some crazy alphabet number on their body. Except the bra industry says SUCK IT and gives us A-DDD. Except Lane Bryant who says here, have 2 options in F-H. Not sufficient I say, not sufficient. So I had a low point. I hit bottom. I wanted pretty.

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Lucie, the owner of a new online plus boutique LucieLu approached me about trying a couple of pieces from her line. I took a long gander at her wares and was pleasantly surprised to find many of things she has in stock–lots of fresh prints, unexpected details, punchy colour– are relevant to my fatshion interests, and so was happy to test out a couple of things and report on my findings.

For reference purposes, I am 5′3, about 260 pounds and wear anything from a 16 to 20 on top and 20 to 24 on the bottom. My measurements (last I checked) are 47.5-43-55 (less hip and more profound derriere).

The first item I tried was the zipper tee & I am quite happy with it. I like my basics to have some chutzpah so the puffed sleeves and unexpected zipper rosette are big selling points for me. It’s got that whole “gritty meets pretty” vibe that the Unremarkable Guy with Hipster Glasses on this season of Project Runway keeps going on about, and I can imagine it working with a wide variety of skirts, tucked and untucked.

It’s slate grey and made from a soft, stretchy rayon/poly blend. It has enough weight/structure that it doesn’t bunch or wrinkle–tees tend to roll up over my belly but this one, i’m happy to report, did not stray from its assigned post. As you can see from the untucked photo below, it’s a decent length, and cut to be fairly fitted all the way down. Definitely long enough that I’d feel comfortable wearing it with jeans (that is, if I had any that weren’t utterly mediocre, but that’s not Lucie’s fault). I ordered the 2x which I found true to size. This particular shirt goes up to a 5x (30) and I expect that the length/stretchiness would allow for it to be worn (albeit on the snugger side) by mid-to-moderately busty 32s as well.

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The longer i’m a part of FA the less I’m willing to ignore negative body talk from clueless family, uninitiated friends, and total strangers. I feel like all the work I’ve put in on size acceptance amount to some sort of Fat Powers–and with great powers comes great responsibility– and that I should be harnessing said powers to make the world a better, more size-positive place. I think about what a difference hearing anything fat positive would have made to a self-loathing teenage me and it seems wrong–if socially advisable–to hold my tongue.

I believe there is something significant in receiving overt/covert approval from a confident-seeming stranger when you feel like an unloveable beast. I am continually humbled and surprised by the messages I receive about my fatshion photos. It’s both scary and encouraging to me that my unapologetically posting pictures of my fat ass on the internet encourages people to hate themselves a little less. Without cracking the particular low self-esteem chestnut of whether a person ought to place value in what other people think of them, I think that a little “permission” (for lack of a better way term), can go a long way to making someone stare a little less hatefully at their reflection. Don’t get me wrong, it’s extremely unlikely for a person to go from “I shouldn’t be seen in public!” to “pass the holographic hot pants!” on account of some unexpected cheerleading from someone they’ve never met. On the other hand, words are never without weight, and a few kind–or even just neutral–words can make a world of difference when you’re walking around in a dark cloud of self-loathing, expecting people to say the worst, almost daring them not to.

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There’s a quaint little shop that’s opened up in my ‘hood that I’ve discovered I enjoy. Though it has no knowledge of two whole cakes it does carry whatever my fellow hoodlums sell or trade in. In bright green and annoying font I passed by grudgingly, surely they’d have nothing for me. I had just discovered a decent Goodwill, my thrifting was complete! But lo, after a friend gallantly shoved me through the doors I discovered…..Torrid pre-pink.

While an entire post could be dedicated to Torrid’s pre-pink days and my love for whomever brought in their pre-pink items, I digress. I was pretty pumped to walk into a neighborhood trendier-than-thou shop and find things in my size. Granted I found all of 3 things in my size but that’s a Big Deal in the fat thrifting world. Aside from a few amazing vintage hunters (Cupcake and Cuddlebunny, Re/Dress, a few I’m leaving out on accident) and your local fatswap, thrifting in the fat world can be downright depressing.

So here I am, finding some dresses, trying them on, loving one. One fit amazing from the under-boob down. I mean really amazing. I wanted to pull out the knee-high boots and flogger and hop on over to somewhere dirty, perverted and happy. The rub? Side boob. Lots of it. I mean talk about boobage. My G-cups weren’t running over necessarily, more like storming the gates…and taking the underarm fabric with ‘em.

I walked around that hipster haven and asked several women what they thought of the dress. M’eh was the overall opinion, side boob was the culprit. Yet the cleavage was excellent. Got me to thinking….why the front and not the side? Is this the bastardized cousin of the mullet? What gives?

Then I bought the dress. I had lofty ideals of reformatting it into something more lacy on top, maybe some fantabulous black lace additions, something chic and slutty. Instead, I’m embracing my side boob. I want a side boob revolution.

If you’re a woman eating in public most people will consider it performance art and a judgment invitational. You can expect comments on the type, quantity, the good-for-youness, and your chosen food receptacle. The only thing that might draw more attention to the fact that you are a woman eating, is if you happen to be eating salsa out of one of those sombrero-style hats constructed out of nachos, especially if the chips are extra crunchy. Actually, I take that back–if you’re a woman who has the gall to eat in public people basically react to you as if you are loudly and theatrically consuming a novelty hat.

And it’s annoying. And there are times when I will actually avoid eating around others because anything other than “that looks delicious!”–and let’s be honest, sometimes even that, disrupts my frenzied shoveling my enjoyment of what should be pleasurable hour of sustenance. We all eat. Sometimes lots, sometimes a little, hopefully what we’re eating is always delicious. Can we, as a society of people who require food to live, work, and play just accept this as such and move on?

Of course not.

Scene: classroom, graduate seminar. A colleague of mine mixing her salad–we are on break– in some sizeable tupperware–which you know, allows for tossing as opposed to just having the best stuff sink to the bottom or the formation of an unmovable, discrete ingredient layered brick. Witnessing this truly incredible feat of something someone has never ever done before ever in life, MY PROF takes it upon himself to loudly remark on the OMG SIZE of her SALAD BOWL. Because anything bigger than the palm of your hand is comically large, AMIRITE?

She turns red and says: it was the only clean tupperware! My boyfriend didn’t wash the other stuff!

The presenter–arranging his notes for the next half of the presentation- sees she’s uncomfortable and joins in her defense: the bowl is just big, it’s probably not full!

I, being one of those insufferable radicals who disagrees with the premise that a woman should have to defend her choice of fucking tupperware–and nevermind that, her choice to eat at LUNCH TIME– blurt out the following:

I love it when people comment on what women are eating like it’s their business! It’s totally a class move!

And no one says anything. Though one colleague and I exchange glances. and it’s awkkkkkkward. And then the presentation resumes.

Evidently I’m taking a page from my mentor Lesley–one of the best Lesleys OF ALL TIME– and opting to be fat and mouthy in public versus just plain old fat. The latter is way too status quo and way more likely to lead to easy career opportunities and we absolutely can’t have that. I do everything the hard way. It’s my schtick!

I was leaning against a sign that read “Bus Stops Here” and jamming to some Dresden Dolls, my trusty guide dog sitting politely at my left leg. He laid down impatiently as the minute hands ticked and still no bus in sight. Then, out of what most docs wouldn’t call peripheral vision I spotted a figure stooping for a pet-by.

What is a pet-by, you ask? It’s when a knowing pedestrian sneaks in a pet or smooch or otherwise grossly boundaries-crossing form of affection at an unsuspecting service animal. Not to be mistaken with human grabbings or other forms of harassment but nonetheless devious and irritating for both animal and human handler.

Without missing a beat and sans usual snark I said loud enough for passerby to hear that “that was a shitty thing to do.” There, I said it. That was a shitty thing for person to do. Ask first, respect my answer, move on. Clearly knowing petting wasn’t allowed, ze sneaked on by, hoping I wouldn’t notice. Too bad my dog alerts me, not liking unknown human touch too much.

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I love the Sartorialist. Almost more than any other blog that I read (and maybe read isn’t the right word because its mostly photos). Yeah, I get down with Jay Smooth for thinky bits, Warren Ellis for shits and giggles and Afrobella for cosmetics but nothing really piques my curiosity and creativity like the Sartorialist. The blog is diverse, exciting and beautiful. Well, diverse in terms of race and diverse in terms of style and diverse in terms of gender… but what about size? A couple of days ago, in the Fatshionista LiveJournal community, a member indicated that she would like to start a plus sized version of the Sartorialist. Lots of of people jumped in to say “Oh, but there aren’t fat people in the places he shoots.” or “Oh, he’d never think of shooting fat women because he’s from the micro-person fashion world. He gets a pass.”

Then today the man behind the Sartorialist wrote this:

When I am shooting on the street ,older women and larger size women often say “no” to my request to shoot them. Actually, much more than any other category of people I shoot. I think they have a deep but real suspicion about how the image will be used. I also think there continues to be a growing disconnect between the fashion community and “average” women in general. However, do you think that this economic crisis has forced the fashion community to open it’s eyes a little bit to want the customers want?

And I tend to believe him. Sometimes, I see a woman out on the Hill and she’s done up in a black sheath dress, black tights, neon pink shoes, a furry neon pink hat and giant movie star sunglasses and I think “Damn! I wish I had my camera!” and on the occasion that I do? They freak out. And I get why. I know anyone reading this that is fat has had strangers approach them to tell them how they can lose weight (and many, like myself have gotten into arguments that perplexed said strangers when it was revealed that we don’t want to lose weight). And although I hate it, I have gotten into the mindset that if anyone approaches me for anything not immediately identifiable– I am pretty sure it is about judgment on my body. 

I’ve been thinking about it for a bit though. I don’t get approached a bunch these days (I personally think its my hair– the less straight my hair is, the more intimidating I am to the general population) but when I did, the things that made me receptive was the the race of the person approaching, the age of the person approaching and the gender of the person approaching. In that order. If a young white guy approaches me on the street for anything (and they do, usually for money or a light) I usually just walk faster. I’m not sure about people of other races– but my kind of femininity, my sort of body, my kind of hair and my kind of beauty has been villified by white people so why should I expect anything else from them? And for people who’re just fat and don’t face the hits of intersectionality (the race/body/gender/orientation quadruple whammy)– their bodies being fatter, softer, bigger… what have you have been made into a moral issue. You’re bad if you’re fat. Jesus would want you to be skinny. So yeah.

So for him, and anyone else who is actually trying to reach the entire spectrum of women, I suggest getting your story straight with your message bearers. Don’t put a giant cake on the cover of your magazine and then have the headline be LOSE WEIGHT QUICK. Don’t keep pushing the size 4 as the curvy size (when a 16-20 is more of a curvy size, depending on height) and start actually, y’know, interacting with some of us fat hordes. Even if we are skeptical about your motives you know us. We’re your wives and daughters. We’re the makeup artists, struggling actresses and well, everyone else.

Also, there’s been some new discussion in the Fatshionista! Livejournal community regarding the above comment (by the Sartorialist) about assumptions and intent. Interesting things.

[This has been cross-posted from The Pretty Year, another fabulous fashion blog. Go check it out!]

About a year ago, I decided that I wanted to see what life would be like without pants.

I was inspired by Lesley’s pantsless life, but I wasn’t so sure that I could pull it off. I had a lot of reservations about whether or not I could do it, and as I saw it, there were several potential obstacles in the way of a life in dresses:

* Did I have enough dresses?
* What about the chub rub factor?
* What about winter?
* Would I get sick of all dresses all the time?
* Would eliminating pants from my wardrobe make me a happier person?

I was initially only going to try this no pants thing for just a couple of weeks, so I don’t remember the exact date of my decision other than that it was sometime in August. And first and foremost, there was the question of quantity.

Did I have enough dresses?

When I began my challenge, I think I probably had 20-25 dresses in my closet. Now, that sounds like a lot of dresses, and theoretically enough for four or five 5-day work rotations, but about 7-10 of them were dressy dresses, so those were out. I also had several unbreathable vintage polyester dresses in my closet that I knew I wouldn’t be able to wear until winter, so those were out too.

Thus began the dress collecting. One, sometimes two at a time, I began buying dresses. Most of them were priced under $25 since I didn’t have a whole lot of money to spend. I bought a shitload of dresses via fatshionista’s sales post Fridays, many of which were from Cupcake and Cuddlebunny, a truly fantastic plus size vintage business run by my friend Rachel Cupcake. I also frequented my favorite cheap dress haunts, Rainbow and H&M. I probably got about one dress per paycheck, and slowly began accumulating a collection.

To help me afford all of this, I also sold a whole lot of nice clothes, shoes, and accessories that I had been meaning to get rid of forever. In the past, I’ve been a bit of a clothes hoarder, but I’ve slowly trained myself to throw things away that don’t fit and/or that I haven’t touched in a year or more. So, I did a big sweep of my collection and sold a whole lot of things online. This netted me a nice chunk of change, and enabled me to get some really exciting pieces to start off with.

As a plus size dress wearer, it’s always been a bit harder for me to find cute and affordable dresses in my size, hence the hoarding tendencies. It’s taken me years, but I’m finally learning the fine balance between snapping cute things up when I find them, and also not just buying things because they fit and/or are on sale.

The other big lesson I learned this past year while accumulating a dress collection is that as a person who hates sewing, I cannot live without my tailor. I was lucky enough to find a very affordable tailor in my neighborhood who will do things like hem a dress for $5 and take it in for $7. And this opened up my dress-buying world exponentially. Whereas before, I was limited to buying stuff that fit me perfectly (or well enough, if I was willing to compromise), I could now buy things that fit in some places and were too big in others. And in fact, buying dresses that were too big enabled me to get every single part of it tailored to my body perfectly, most of the time for less than $15. Now, $15 may seem like a lot to spend when your dress doesn’t cost more than $20, but I have to say that owning a garment made to fit your body is completely worth the investment.

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Fatshionism as it stands generally relates to fashion in a fat way. Fashion as it is understood generally relates to clothing and apparel. Hair as it stands on my head is not generally fat or fashionable. It’s organic and grown myself, thank you very much. So why do I feel the need to talk about fat hair?

Recently I had a conversation with a friend who for a while kept her hair butcher-shop short. She liked ¼ inch on top and some dangly earrings to boot. As her face has filled up with some much-earned fat she has let her hair grow longer and shaggier. When I asked why, it was because of the fat. Her face, she decided could no longer do well with the short spiky ‘do of her thinner days. While she wasn’t a fan of her new fat hair, she donned it with fat resignation and a promise to eat healthier tomorrow.

I thought about my own hair journey. I’ve never really felt at home with my kinky Jew hair so I’ve made it a point to fuck with it as much as possible. Long, short, shaved, fuscia, curled, flat-ironed, etc. You get the picture. I’ve never really worried about the flow of my hair and face, never really thought about whether my hair was fat-complimenting enough. Rather I attacked my hair like a separate beast of my body, the same way I tattooed my right arm and pierced my lip.

While dissecting our body parts into parts may not be the healthiest way to go about it (who said I was healthy?) I wonder what we as fatties, fatlettes and fat-allies would look like from the neck up if we stopped worrying about the neck down, the scale and/or the size of our shirts and pants. Would it suddenly be preposterous to claim some hairstyles “too fat” for some faces or would tiny faces suddenly get frizzy mops of joy? Would the hair industry change labels and would stylists stop tisking about cheeks, chins and nose lengths?

Note: a quick Google image hunt showed lots of non-fat hairs, I’d like to see some fat hairs. Please post yours! Fatshionista’s flickr is here or you can link to your own image hosting blog/site. ROCK THE FAT HAIR.