In a Target dressing room.

For fucks sake. 

I swore silently to myself as I discarded another pair of jeans. I thanked and cursed my mother in the same breath for giving me the stereotypical wide hips of a Latina woman. 

There goes my dream of ever being a size 8.

I started on the dress she had made me try on,

Solo para ver mija!” she had told me, as she sidled away into her dressing room, holding a small mountain of floral patterns and silhouettes that seem to only converge on your closet once you hit 45+ years.

I sighed and stepped into the pastel pink monstrosity. It made it’s way half way up my calves when it decided it had enough, and wouldn’t progress farther. 

I swore again, but this time I wasn’t the only one. 

In the changing room to my left, hidden from view by a grossly beige coloured division, was another woman, who had just tutted so loudly to herself I thought she had spat out a piece of gum. She sighed much like I had and this was followed by a series of rattles and clinking of coat hangers as she put her items back on their hooks. 

With a furrowed brow I gently reassembled my own clothing back onto my body. A pair of 30/30 Levi jeans with an AS Colour plain white tee, size 10 (band reference intended.) I have long since come to terms with my sizing, ever since I was 13 and the woman fitting me for my high school uniform said, “Oh you hide your size so well!” meaning that the XS shirt and size 8 skirt I was painstakingly trying to wear was not for me. So since then none of it matters, and I have been fortunate enough to have women in my family who are just like me. But maybe the woman next to me never had that.

Maybe she hasn’t learned to be okay with her size, whatever it is. Maybe she had a baby and her clothes aren’t right anymore. Or maybe she’s been stressed at work and now everything is a bit too loose. Whatever reason she may have audibly sighed for, I was right there with her; feeling every popped stitch and painful zipper, every button that wouldn’t stretch and the pain just under the ribs when you can’t suck it in anymore. 

I don’t really know what this post is meant to say or who it’s meant to resonate with. I just think that the only reason a woman should be sighing and tutting in a mall dressing room is because she can’t decide between a cheeseburger or a steak sandwich for her lunch with the girls later on. 

Elena Luna