How to Dress a Moving Target
(Content Warning: Please note that this article includes descriptions and discussions of disordered eating and body dysmorphia.)
Beth with her son and husband
One of my earliest memories of fashion’s inextricable role in conveying a narrative with my body dates back to 1986. I was eight years old, scrupulously studying my reflection in a full-length mirror. In what felt like a noble challenge bestowed upon me by Fate itself, I would piece together outfits to minimize what I perceived as flaws, play up strengths, and celebrate my personal aesthetic. In this instance I was working with the slim pickings handed to me: a pair of khaki-colored (thankfully not pleated front) pants, ivory turtleneck, and tube socks my mom had purchased from The Children's Place. After fussing with the pants a bit, I settled on a French cuff, which made a clever transition from pant to sock to tennis shoe. The turtleneck was too big; my mom always shopped a size up (as a mother I now understand this as a method of stretching one’s dollar over the eight-month window of what fits a child). To conform it to my shape, I rolled the sleeves to just below my elbows and tucked the front into the middle four inches of my waistband so it didn’t all hang completely below my butt. I threw on my favorite belt with some bright plastic jewelry to complete my look, and VOILÀ.
I remember the satisfaction I felt, saying to myself, “Beth you’ve done it again!” as I looked at the final results. I was a wardrobical illusionist.
There was what felt like a primal need to compensate for—rather, distract from—my drab, shapeless body by curating ensembles and accessorizing with big necklaces, multiple watches, and elaborate hair clips. Throwing on the pre-assembled outfit presented to me via shop mannequin or one of the spreads in my myriad garbage teen fashion rags was not an option because I in no way resembled those leggy, fawn-like creatures with sharp little wrists and perky teen breasts, squatting in shorts without a care in the world and nary a dimple in sight.
Fashion, it seemed, was simply Not For Me. It was for Them.
I, in contrast, was short, stubby, and topographically challenged above the waist. At least that’s how I saw this body through my dysmorphic lens. I had always been horrified by what my eyes registered as larger than life, disproportionate thighs that defied my desperate pleas to just shrink already by growing even more once puberty wrapped its manicured hand around my throat. And yet, I still was (and am) compelled to participate in the ritual of costume and self adornment.
Lucky for me, the nineties were the golden age of wide leg jeans. This, with a platform shoe, provided the much-needed height to properly distribute my body mass, creating the optical illusion I needed to pass as a Pretty Girl. Through trial and error, I learned that a high-waisted flared pant or a monochromatic jumpsuit with a padded bra worked best for my short, flat chested, slightly athletic build.
I also learned how to successfully make myself vomit. Imagine my delight when, after years of failed attempts at food restriction, I realized I could just throw it up? I had been trying out diets since the tender age of six, and once, in a desperate and hare-brained bid to just stop eating, I even took a battery-operated lint shaver to my tongue to sever the taste buds. All I wound up with was a mouth full of blood and searing pain when I ate, because, surprise, it didn’t work. It would be many years, thousands of dollars in therapy, and dozens of wardrobes until I understood my eating disorder. It was an excruciating journey spanning every clothing size, with strategically planned outfits to match.
“I willingly surrendered any perceived control I had of my body to the process of growing, birthing, and sustaining a human.”
By the time I became pregnant at 39, I’d been “symptom free” or “clean” for five years. I cannot overstate what a massive accomplishment this is. It took me over ten years of exhausting work in talk therapy, and I became much sicker before I got better. I was in a strong, loving relationship and surrounded by supportive friends who had stuck with me through the throes of my addiction and the heinous behaviour that accompanied it. The time was right, and I willingly surrendered any perceived control I had of my body to the process of growing, birthing, and sustaining a human.
I’d always imagined that, should I embark on this path, I would be the type of pregnant person draped in flamboyant, patterned robes and empire-waist dresses. I’d decorate this goddess-like figure as though it were a festively wrapped parcel, presenting my breederly gift to the world complete with a satin bow belt.
To my surprise, I opted for a cloak of invisibility: a camo green cardigan of monstrous proportions that fell just below my knees and would accommodate not only my expanding girth but probably that of two other full-grown adults as well. It was woven with a thick, fuzzy, pilled-up yarn and my husband called it the Muppet coat. This, paired with a uniform of black or grey leggings and oversized dark hoodies, had me blending so deep into the background that my neighbors were genuinely shocked to see this mom strolling her Pisces baby come Spring, each one telling me they had no idea I was pregnant when I’d been in front of them the entire time.
Given my history, it would make sense to assume that I was ashamed of my growing body and wanted to conceal it, but in truth I felt beautiful, if not overwhelmed. For the first time in my entire life I had actual breasts! They were plump and round and I would cup them in my hands as I bounded down the stairs just to feel them as they bounced around, independent of the rest of my body. Surely this is how Pinnochio felt when he became a “real boy”. I was slightly perturbed by the seams in my leggings working overtime as my thighs and ass grew; I imagine if I’d held a miniature megaphone up to them the high-pitched sound of threads screaming in agony from being stretched beyond capacity would cut through the din of any crowded café.
“I had made a firm commitment to myself in the early weeks of pregnancy that I would not diet or make any effort to “get my body back” once on the other side of maternity.”
Beth in her “Muppet coat”
Instead of being disgusted with myself though, I thanked those leggings and the limbs that filled them for growing and being strong enough to carry my ever-expanding form. Truth be told, I was covering up and hiding more as an attempt to protect this new treasure growing inside me. He had come to me so effortlessly that I was convinced I’d pay a price somehow, and I braced myself for fetal abnormalities or death with every checkup and scan. I refused to have a baby shower out of pure superstition. In my mind, the less attention I drew to this new life the safer he’d be.
Spoiler: my kid was born and he’s fine. I, on the other hand, was completely dumbfounded by the radical changes my body went through every day as it recovered from birthing by Caesarean. My postpartum shape was confusing. Two years later, it still inspires shrugs and the exasperated blowing up of hair from my face when I look in the mirror. After the initial month of nesting at home swathed in robes and pajamas, I settled on low-cut, flowy maxi dresses for leaving the house. I had made a firm commitment to myself in the early weeks of pregnancy that I would not diet or make any effort to “get my body back” once on the other side of maternity. It was a Herculean effort to muster compassion for my changing shape, and while I really loved emphasising my cleavage with every plunging neckline I could get my hands on, I admittedly felt confused by the new overall softness of my body and perplexed as to how I could dress/accessorize it. I’ve always been a fan of layering on the bracelets until only a few inches of my forearms remained visible but I learned quickly that babies don’t take well to being cradled in arms of glass beads and metal.
Huh. Maybe my body was so soft for, like, a reason.
I had a form to follow my new function.
But how to adorn it?
Not only was there an overall squish where firmness had once dominated, but my ribs had literally expanded, as had my hips. Supposing I had succumbed to the chant of “GET YOUR BODY BACK” I read on the cover of seemingly every magazine at check-out or in the posts of every Influencer Mom, no amount of diet and exercise would shave my bones down.
“Dressing became a challenge that required equal parts patience, creativity, and psychic vision. ”
Dressing became a challenge that required equal parts patience, creativity, and psychic vision. It was, at times, exasperating. What’s the point in buying any type of garment when my body surely wouldn’t fit into it the same way six months down the road? But I can’t wear baggy maxi dresses forever, can I?
A perfect example of this conundrum was finding a gown for my wedding, which was to take place overseas six months after my son was born. I needed to find a dress far enough in advance that I could make the proper alterations, but also had to predict what size I would be half a year postpartum. Also required was a comfort level that would last 16 hours of wear, nursing, eating, and dancing as my husband is Hungarian and weddings are a marathon sport over there. I settled on a beige floor-length flowy number with an empire waist and beading up at the bodice. The spaghetti straps were in no way suitable to support my bust (have I mentioned how much I loved having breasts?) so I swapped them out for some wide satin ribbon that discreetly snapped in front for easy access when baby needed a snack. My abdominal muscles hadn’t quite finished stitching themselves back together so I accessorized with a wide elastic belt in an attempt to smooth my silhouette. The entire ensemble was topped off with a cape I sewed myself from beaded netting and a fox fur collar my mother-in-law had gifted me. The final product was gorgeous, stately, and exactly what I’d been going for. My cleavage was on full display and I felt like a queen. However, when I look at photos from that day/night, what I see is not a queen but a woman bewildered and not entirely comfortable in her own skin, unsure of how to properly stand in stilettos and hold her torso upright.
Collage: Laura Snelgrove
Was this because I was attempting to be a gracious bride while incredibly sleep-deprived and jet lagged in a land where I could barely speak the language? Was it the stress of keeping my shit together for a 16-hour wedding while tending to a nursing six-month-old who’d just cut his first tooth that day? Could it have had anything to do with literally getting my period as I walked down the aisle and bleeding into my gown as I sat for the 90-minute ceremony, kegeling for my life and praying the blood wouldn’t breach all three layers of fabric between my crotch and 200 of our closest friends? Perhaps all of the above, sprinkled with the realization that I no longer enjoyed being in the spotlight as I had in my previous, child-free life.
Maybe having a wedding at this point in time wasn’t the greatest idea, but it’s what we did and I don’t regret it. I just have no interest in looking at the album.
Speaking of which, a client of mine treated me to a free mother-baby photo session to celebrate this fleeting time in our lives when my son was about four months old. I felt so raw and strange in my new skin that the entire experience, while pleasant as a means to get out of the house and socialize with adults, felt uncomfortable. The pictures came out beautifully—glowing mother with her adorable smiling baby—but I still haven’t looked at them after the first glances, because even two years later I am not ready to confront that strange feeling of not recognizing my own image.
“Do I embrace my inner bohemian sorceress and stay in flowing robes and loose gowns? Sounds great, but how does one ride a bike dressed like that?”
Just before the pandemic hit, I went on a date with my husband for the first time in five months. Like, a genuine, get a sitter, get dressed up and go to an event kind of date. I wore a sleeveless knee-length black silk dress with ruffles at the hem and neckline, paired with a fitted black cocktail jacket that has the sweetest hint of a gathered sleeve, a pair of patterned stockings, black velour heels, and a red leather belt. I looked great, but felt exhausted from keeping my core muscles flexed for three hours straight to accommodate the unforgiving waistline of my dress. As soon as we walked through the door to our house, I yanked the belt off and began the unzipping before the sitter had even left. Fitted clothes feel uncomfortable now in a way they hadn’t before, and I'm clumsily trying to reinvent my style. Perhaps I’d have arrived at this point independent of birthing a child. Maybe this is what happens with age. Do I embrace my inner bohemian sorceress and stay in flowing robes and loose gowns? Sounds great, but how does one ride a bike dressed like that? And what of my knees? I’m constantly on the carpet/concrete/ground engaged with a person who stands at 2’ 8” and loves to run away from me while I try to dress him.
How do the other moms do it? Whenever I see a mother with long, manicured talons, all I can think of is how I can't help but scratch my son as soon as my nails graze a hair past my finger tips. How is Judith at the playground so effortlessly chasing a five year old in her stacked bootheels, when I manage to roll my ankle walking in tennis shoes?
I know comparison is the thief of joy, but how can one not observe other humans in similar roles and mentally measure themselves up to their counterparts? I wonder how many other mothers swinging their little ones have also struggled with eating disorders. I wonder if they too have to change four or five times before arriving at a “safe” outfit that they can leave the house in? And if so, how do they cope when that safe outfit becomes too tight because these days there is an entire banquet of feelings to be eaten? For example, the guilt of knowing my husband works a job he’s not ecstatic about so I can focus on rearing our child, a role that does not come naturally to me and in which I come up short every day. Or the despair when I see how much of this society has set up caretakers to fail in so many ways. Let's not forget the sharp ache in my chest every time I walk through my neglected basement art studio to do another load of laundry.
Or how about the complete and utter helplessness when I see my dysmorphia staring back at me in the mirror and I truly don’t know where the fun-house looking glass reflection ends, and I begin?
And that's just the first course.
“Doesn’t this body that has persisted so tenaciously deserve to be celebrated and dressed as such?”
I struggle between the wistful image I have of myself as a radiant, long haired, goddess mother dripping with pendant necklaces, and that of a sad, bedraggled, struggling-artist mom in baggy jeans who practically needs a gun held to her head to get her teeth brushed each day. Sometimes (ok, almost every day) I self-medicate by eating an entire bar of chocolate in one sitting. The difference between pre-treatment me and recovery me is that I am quite aware I'm eating feelings that are too big to process at the moment and I don’t beat myself up about it. I will let those emotions move through me when I’m ready, on my own timeline.
The work I did in that decade of therapy holds up. It’s solid down to the foundation. There wasn't a single crevice of my life that my bulimia hadn't affected, and I'd been at war with my body for so long that it took years to even conceive of any other kind of experience being possible, but I did it. It's an accomplishment that took exactly one quarter of my 42 years on Earth to achieve, and it goes relatively unsung.
So then, doesn’t this body that has persisted so tenaciously deserve to be celebrated and dressed as such?
I still think fashion as an industry is Not For Me. In no way do I relate to the well curated Influencer Moms or the Fashion Plate Mommies sprinkled throughout the city in their suspiciously clean shoes and unstained shirts. In fact, I have an acute and humorless disdain for most of it. The business of fashion is a cold-blooded financial and psychic vampire, not to mention an ecological nightmare. But fashion as self expression? I couldn’t live without it. The days when I hit my stride and piece together a look that transforms my mood from an ephemeral vapor into a visual platform feels like some sort of alchemy, and makes all the confusing, frustrating mirror days worth it. And, thankfully, wide legs and jumpsuits are evergreen.
