I spent thirty years thinking my body was the problem. Turns out I just hadn’t found the right clothes.
For almost three years, I lifted weights three to five times a week. I did my first competitive meet, broke eight state records, and started training for the California State meet this fall. Then, a hip injury in September needed recovery time, and I couldn’t lift weights. As the weeks dragged on, I felt sad. Exercise had become my mood stabilizer, my favorite distraction, my counterweight to all the crazy out there. I needed something else to focus on.
I found myself thinking about clothes. Not in the way I’d thought about them for years—as a series of compromises, a need to find things that looked good and also fit. But as something different. A way to have fun. And that surprised me, because my history with fashion has never been simple.
Back in the ’90s, living in New York City, I lost 25 pounds so I could buy cute work clothes at Henri Bendel, where sizes never went above a 12. I dieted into high-waisted Jordache jeans because that’s where the sizing stopped. And here’s the thing: it worked. I had so much fun with clothes back then. But the price of admission was shrinking myself to fit what the fashion world was willing to offer.
For years afterward, as my weight fluctuated and my life changed, my relationship with fashion went up and down. Thinner: cute clothes. Heavier: basics. Finally, I just got tired of it. Instead of thinking about fun fashion, I built a capable capsule wardrobe. Quince cashmere crew necks, J Crew boyfriend tees, Land’s End curvy jeans in every wash. Three puff coats. Workable. Streamlined. Efficient.
The basics of my capsule wardrobe: before I got back into fashion.
Then, injured and restless this fall, I started browsing vintage resale shops online. ThredUp, Poshmark, The RealReal, Depop, Ebay. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just a distraction. My first purchase was a vintage deadstock Custo Barcelona t-shirt from eBay—vivid golds and oranges, $48, very much like pieces I treasured in the 90s. Then a gorgeous burnt-out velvet Custo sweater from Poshmark. I remembered what I’d forgotten: fashion could be fun.
But as I kept browsing, I learned something that changed how I saw myself—and my closet.
I discovered that my body—the one I have now, the one I’d spent decades working around—is a perfect vintage size.
Brands from the ’80s, ’90s, and early 2000s, like Talbots, Eileen Fisher, and Austin Reed, made quality petite clothing for years for women with my exact proportions. The pieces I ordered online in petite sizes 14 and 16 fit perfectly. Suddenly, I went from someone who struggled to find clothes that worked to someone with access to a universe of petite vintage fashion that I’d never explored.
I can’t overstate how this felt. For thirty years, the message had been clear: your body is the problem. Lose weight. Find workarounds. Settle. And now, suddenly, I wasn’t the problem. The narrow sizing of the modern fashion industry was the issue. My body had been fine all along—I just hadn’t figured out how to consistently access the clothes that understood it.
I started rebuilding my wardrobe with Gloria Vanderbilt Amanda jeans, a fit I loved decades ago that’s still available in petite sizes, 98% cotton, and under $20. I looked for petite jackets and blazers, patterned button-ups, and quirky sweater vests. Each piece felt like a small update to my ongoing ‘it’s a struggle to find clothes that fit‘ story.
Vintage petite sizing, my secret sauce, who knew?
Now, with more options, I’m discovering what I genuinely like, not what I can settle for: streamlined, textured, and fresh. Cashmere, mohair, linen. Fun but not costume-y.
As a small, round person, I don’t want lots of layers or draping—but I love pattern-on-pattern and color mixing. As a mature woman, I don’t want to resemble a coastal grandma or a grande dame. I want to look like myself.I’m back to lifting now—my hip finally healed. But I won’t give up what I discovered while I was sidelined. Fashion, it turns out, isn’t about shrinking yourself to fit in. It’s about finding what fits you. It only took me thirty years and one injury to realize that.
This is the first in a series about fashion, vintage shopping, and figuring out what I actually like as an mature, aka, old, person (one with lots of energy, but up there in years now.)
I spent thirty years thinking my body was the problem. Turns out I just hadn’t found the right clothes.
For almost three years, I lifted weights three to five times a week. I did my first competitive meet, broke eight state records, and started training for the California State meet this fall. Then, a hip injury in September needed recovery time, and I couldn’t lift weights. As the weeks dragged on, I felt sad. Exercise had become my mood stabilizer, my favorite distraction, my counterweight to all the crazy out there. I needed something else to focus on.
I found myself thinking about clothes. Not in the way I’d thought about them for years—as a series of compromises, a need to find things that looked good and also fit. But as something different. A way to have fun. And that surprised me, because my history with fashion has never been simple.
Back in the ’90s, living in New York City, I lost 25 pounds so I could buy cute work clothes at Henri Bendel, where sizes never went above a 12. I dieted into high-waisted Jordache jeans because that’s where the sizing stopped. And here’s the thing: it worked. I had so much fun with clothes back then. But the price of admission was shrinking myself to fit what the fashion world was willing to offer.
For years afterward, as my weight fluctuated and my life changed, my relationship with fashion went up and down. Thinner: cute clothes. Heavier: basics. Finally, I just got tired of it. Instead of thinking about fun fashion, I built a capable capsule wardrobe. Quince cashmere crew necks, J Crew boyfriend tees, Land’s End curvy jeans in every wash. Three puff coats. Workable. Streamlined. Efficient.
The basics of my capsule wardrobe: before I got back into fashion.
Then, injured and restless this fall, I started browsing vintage resale shops online. ThredUp, Poshmark, The RealReal, Depop, Ebay. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just a distraction. My first purchase was a vintage deadstock Custo Barcelona t-shirt from eBay—vivid golds and oranges, $48, very much like pieces I treasured in the 90s. Then a gorgeous burnt-out velvet Custo sweater from Poshmark. I remembered what I’d forgotten: fashion could be fun.
But as I kept browsing, I learned something that changed how I saw myself—and my closet.
I discovered that my body—the one I have now, the one I’d spent decades working around—is a perfect vintage size.
Brands from the ’80s, ’90s, and early 2000s, like Talbots, Eileen Fisher, and Austin Reed, made quality petite clothing for years for women with my exact proportions. The pieces I ordered online in petite sizes 14 and 16 fit perfectly. Suddenly, I went from someone who struggled to find clothes that worked to someone with access to a universe of petite vintage fashion that I’d never explored.
I can’t overstate how this felt. For thirty years, the message had been clear: your body is the problem. Lose weight. Find workarounds. Settle. And now, suddenly, I wasn’t the problem. The narrow sizing of the modern fashion industry was the issue. My body had been fine all along—I just hadn’t figured out how to consistently access the clothes that understood it.
I started rebuilding my wardrobe with Gloria Vanderbilt Amanda jeans, a fit I loved decades ago that’s still available in petite sizes, 98% cotton, and under $20. I looked for petite jackets and blazers, patterned button-ups, and quirky sweater vests. Each piece felt like a small update to my ongoing ‘it’s a struggle to find clothes that fit‘ story.
Vintage petite sizing, my secret sauce, who knew?
Now, with more options, I’m discovering what I genuinely like, not what I can settle for: streamlined, textured, and fresh. Cashmere, mohair, linen. Fun but not costume-y.
As a small, round person, I don’t want lots of layers or draping—but I love pattern-on-pattern and color mixing. As a mature woman, I don’t want to resemble a coastal grandma or a grande dame. I want to look like myself.I’m back to lifting now—my hip finally healed. But I won’t give up what I discovered while I was sidelined. Fashion, it turns out, isn’t about shrinking yourself to fit in. It’s about finding what fits you. It only took me thirty years and one injury to realize that.
This is the first in a series about fashion, vintage shopping, and figuring out what I actually like as an mature, aka, old, person (one with lots of energy, but up there in years now.)