I got a new catalog in the mail yesterday. I flipped through it idly, then set it aside as being just one more tantalizing tease of a catalog filled with tall, slim, impossibly attractive models with gorgeous clothing draping over their frames like fine art. Who cares? The clothes aren't going to look like that on me, and they're rarely in my size, so why bother looking? I'm sick of finding something absolutely wonderful that looks like it would be flattering even on my mother goddess figure, and then noting it comes in small, petite, and anorexic. Experience tells me clothing which looks fabulous on a model is going to make me look like a Christmas pudding. Besides, I have this perpetual chip on my shoulder about clothing catalogs. Everyone is so photogenically perky in them. They look like they all know how to play bridge and have their own golf carts even though they're only 20 years old. It's unnatural, I tell you.
If you think I'm bitching about the consequences of being fat, of course I am, and yes, I could go on a diet and lose a few after which you might think I'd then be able to fit into the catalog clothing. But you'd be wrong. I've never had the figure to wear clothing designed for tall, slender women. I don't believe any of my friends ever have, either, except maybe one who never wore anything but army fatigues, hacked off t-shirts, and motorcycle jackets anyway. If you have a waistline that's the same size as your hips, or are under five foot four, or have long legs but a short torso, or any number of normal body types, you can't walk into a store and buy an outfit. You have to hunt around, and compromise with your own taste, and pay for tailoring unless you buy something so expensive the store throws in the tailoring for free. Shopping is fun, but it does get awfully tiresome to find the designers prefer to cater to a narrow category of body types. Catalogs just prolong the experience, because you have to send things back so often after discovering the cute jacket on the model makes you look like Gomer Pyle.
And that ought to have been the end of that, except I forgot which catalog it was about four hours later, and picked it up again. I looked at a very pretty linen dress and reflexively glanced at the description. Miracle of miracles, they carried my size. Heck, they carried everybody's size. My eyes probably bugged out. I know I exclaimed aloud. I looked through the rest of the catalog. They had lovely clothing, all to my taste, and virtually every item was available in petite, misses, women's, and tall sizes. Hallelujah, a clothing company that actually wants to sell clothing to real women.
J. Jill is the catalog. The tall, slim models in their catalog look more like they used to go to poetry slams and art gallery openings instead of playing tennis, but they're still impossibly beautiful. The clothing line is expensive, of course (I can't afford my own taste). It's heavy on the embroidered linen shifts, unconstructed cotton blouses, and loose fabrics of every variety. If you blanch at Nordstrom's and Saks' prices, then this catalog won't suit you except as a really good fantasy. But hey, at least in this fantasy you aren't held back by considerations of size and availability. I can't begin to tell you how bucked up I was to discover this.
In completely unrelated news, I am happy to announce that there is one fuzzy creature in this household who is in complete, vigorous, positively rude health with nary a sign of imperfection aside from a regrettable tendency to shred the curtains. Keiko has just been to see the vet for the first time in almost two years, and she got a clean bill of health. She's a porkball, though, and is going to go on a short diet to bring her down a pound or two. I think the warmer, drier weather will help control her weight, too, as she starts going outside more.
As is true for us humans. I'm ready for a little less earth mother in the silhouette already.
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