Page 87 of Bodybuilders for the BBW

The next day Natasha, Mandie, and I were standing in one of the big department stores. I looked around with not a small amount of apprehension.

“You’re thinking that you don’t fit in here.” Natasha stood in front of me, a wry smile on her face. “Those mannequins…” We both looked at the slender figures placed around the floor. “You know your clothes will never hang the same way on your body.”

So why the hell am I here? I thought, and with a twitch of her lips, it was clear she was thinking the same.

“The whole vibe they’re creating here.” She waved her hand vaguely at the room. “It’s to subconsciously reinforce that idea. If you just diet, exercise, have surgery, deny yourself, you too will look as amazing as this.”

“I do most of those things,” Mandie said, shifting her body into one of the mannequin’s poses. “And I still don’t look like that.”

“It’s a bullshit vibe,” Natasha continued. “But businesses often have to create a problem which they can solve with a product they sell. Mandie and I do that all the time. We try to take women’s body or fitness dissatisfaction and channel it somewhere more positive through fitness at any size or skill level, but it's still selling them a product.”

“OK, but what the hell do I do when they have so few products that even fit me?” I plucked at the folds of a dress that was my size and winced at the extremely busy pattern. “And when those that do are butt ugly.”

“Glad to see we’re on the same page, because that is hideous.” Natasha dismissed the dress with a flick of her hand, then wandered deeper into the racks. “Now this…” She pulled out a pair of flowing, wide leg pants. “You’re an apple shape.” I blinked, knowing from all the health warnings that this was the worst kind. Not sexy, not hot like an hourglass. I was like a ball on legs and that had me flushing, something she seemed to notice. “That’s just genetics and environmental factors coming together to make you who you are. When we accept who we are, then we can find a way to work with what we’ve got and be happy with the result.”

My arms crossed without thinking, and then I stared at the pants. Mandie had built this whole thing up on my head, where I’d float into the beer garden, looking like a picture of feminine perfection and wearing black pants didn’t really mesh with that mental image.

“Say what you’re thinking.” I blinked at Natasha’s forthright words. “Say it. You can’t upset me, I promise.”

Was I going to do this? A whole bunch of stuff felt like it was jammed up inside me, but I kept it firmly hidden behind the mask I wore near constantly. Don’t let your anxiety show, even as we passed rack after rack of clothes that wouldn’t fit me. Don’t let Mandie or Natasha know how stressful this was. Don’t alert anyone to the fact that the lights were too bright here, the floor too reflective, and that every sound seemed to echo off it, rebounding and growing louder. I swallowed hard, trying to keep the words down, but Natasha had to go and ruin it.

“I can take it. Whatever you have to say, I can take it.”

Her manner was soft, reassuring, even if what she was saying was terribly abrupt. I stared into her eyes, hearing my heart racket around in my chest and then channelled Mandie as I opened my mouth.

“That’s easy for you to say.” I kept my tone as neutral as possible, because honestly, I didn’t wish harm on Natasha or anyone for that matter. “If a woman has the poor taste to be fat, society dictates that they should look like you.” I waved my hands in the air, making an exaggerated version of her shape. “You have curves.” I grabbed my stomach way too hard, feeling the pinch. “I have flab.”

“Every body is capable of being dressed well.” I let out an irritated huff, but when I went to look away, Natasha was there in my line of sight. “Every body. Marketing will have you thinking you have to shrink down, be a certain number on a scale or a tape measure, but you don’t have to buy into that bullshit. Anybody is capable of looking beautiful, especially you.”

She hung the pants back on the rack.

“And I’m thinking you don’t want to rock wide leg pants and a pretty blouse to this date.”

“A dress,” Mandie announced, picking up one and holding it against her.

“I mean—” I started to say.

“A dress. Something floaty and pretty that makes you feel all woman.” She spun around in a circle, forcing the hem to flare out. “A dress that makes every one of those guys swallow their tongue the moment you walk into the beer garden.”

Mandie was always trying to shoehorn me into the kind of clothes she thought worked for me, and for once, she was right. I did want that. I couldn’t remember the last real date I’d been on, and I certainly wasn’t wearing anything like what Mandie described. Was that possible? I wanted to reject the idea of it outright. Nothing in my past led me to believe that it was, but…

Maybe this time would be different?

Maybe I’d find the perfect dress and I’d look amazing. Maybe all three guys would actually deliver on their promise. Maybe this could be the start of something amazing. Hope was like a tiny little flame that became a roaring fire with just a tiny bit of fuel, and that had me standing tall and nodding to Natasha.

“Yeah, that. Let’s try that.”

“Pretty, floaty dress it is.”

Natasha was like a machine, flicking through clothes racks and pulling out items, either selecting them or dismissing them without a second thought. Finally she ended up with an armful of them, which was thrust my way.

“Let’s try these ones on. They may all suck.” Her brows wrinkled. “But they’ll give me an idea of what lines, what fabrics and colours, work best for you. Once we have an idea, I can start looking more seriously.” I took the dresses from her, my knees buckling slightly under the weight of not the fabric, but the expectations. “We’ll find you something you love, Katie, I promise. If not here…” She looked around the room. “Then I know some other places that might work better.”

“Ready to try on some frocks?” Mandie asked.

I wasn’t. I really, really wasn’t. There was a good reason why I avoided the department store change room, and it was this. Nothing seemed to make me feel worse about my body than harsh overhead lights and full-length mirrors. New year, new me. That refrain was getting battered, bruised, by how often I’d used it, but it got my feet moving, towards the change rooms and into a spare cubicle. I hung up the dress, stripped down to just my underwear and then pulled the first dress on.

“How’s it going?”

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