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I decided today to enjoy leisurely walk, basking in the early spring air as the sun caressed my cheeks. It was a perfect moment. The air was brisk, yet warm, and everything smelled so good. After a long, harsh winter, this respite was most welcome to myself, and most everyone around me.

Suddenly, the soundtrack of spring screeched to a halt, and I found myself ripped away from the blissful state I was in. For what was coming into view defied all logic.

She was 30-something.

She was walking her baby.

She was sporting what looked to be a strained black tensor bandage with a crop top.

I stupidly looked closer, and to my utter horror, I realized the crop top was not a crop at all. Rather, her size 20 body is painfully being squeezed into a size 8 legging.

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The consequence to that single act was that her fashion choice did not give over enough textile to cover the muffin top that was merrily floating above the waistband of said pants…a lovely sight indeed.

I’ve heard of the “Ice Cream Cone Effect” from some television fashion police here and there over the years. That’s a condition where your hips to your ankles form the shape of a cone, and you on top are the scoops. It’s not a good look for anyone, male or female.

Well, this chick wasn’t just sporting the cone, but the entire 31 flavours at Baskin-Robbins. Hell, she looked as though she was channelling Ben and Jerry, Hagen Daas, and a truckload of Klondike bars.

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Like some tragic accident, I could not look away. I stood amazed at the momentum all that flesh takes on when it’s mobile. It’s quite horrifying that I was seeing it encased in what is the machine washable equivalent of a can of Ronco brand spray on pants. Every crevice, every dimple, every little hair accented and pronounced beneath the Dancekin tights she tortured her lumpy frame into.

My eyes watered, my head swam, and as I momentarily stopped to process what I had just seen.

I then noticed I was travelling along with a pod of bipedal orcas. Yes, this look was fruitful, and like the pounds they packed into those outfits, these women were clearly multiplying in numbers before my eyes.

I quickly dropped all plans to eat…forever.

OK…as we all know, in the 1980’s, spandex inhabited pretty much every female closet in North America. For some, it was (then) a good thing. However, the ugly truth of the matter is, for others…not so much.

It’s the others that were the problem. And clearly, that problem is generational.

When leggings finally went the way of the mullet (took some a few extra years to finally let go of both), I was one of the most thankful people on earth. Between the damned “hockey hair”, and seeing larger than large wearing smaller than small, I truly wanted some elegance returning to people’s wardrobes. In some ways, I got my wish, thankfully.

Fast forward to 2011. Ankle boots came back into style, as did leg warmers and…*gulp*, leggings. Only this time, leggings look like jeans instead of jungle cat prints. And, with this confection, yoga pants also appeared.

After so many years of seeing guys and gals wearing pyjama bottoms while shopping for groceries, I was grateful for any change.

What some failed to realize is that NOTHING good ever came out trying to stuff ten pounds of potatoes into a two-pound sack. Nothing. Seams strain, blood vessels implode, circulation slows, and the population at large suffer hysterical blindness en-mass. It’s not pretty, and believe me when I say this, neither is the fashion statement.

For some clueless women, this new-to-them fashion advent heralded an era of tasteless delusion. And we, the general public, silently bear witness, tragically.

I can honestly tell you, my readers, that the cracks of large girls asses (or guys for that matter) being heinously exposed is never a welcome sight. The fact that it’s due to snug nature of their yoga pants and leggings does not a good first impression make.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with wearing a proper pair of fitted yoga pants. It’s when they fit like a compression sock pulled over a school bus that it gets ugly.

Worse still is taking in every last dimple that her voluminous ass has to offer; as if bronzed for all eternity in a mass of black spandex hell. It only serves weaken the stomach of the strongest among us.

Am I alone here? I think not.

There’s something to be said for restraint. Perhaps not compressing oneself into outfits that scream to the world that you’re encasing your hills and dales INSIDE of restraints might be, shall we say, taking the high road.

Girls, seriously. Dressing your body like a Pilates instructor when you’re in dire need of Pilates is as pathetic as a 50-year-old man with a fake tan, frosted hair and a skin-tight wife beater calling everyone “dude”. There is nothing sexy about either look. 

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Let’s face it; we all have different body types. Mine is a kind of furry colossus, so I’m not pointing fingers at anyone with weight issues.

Where I differ is that I NEVER parade any part of my Kewpie doll shape out on the promenade. For me, it’s a matter of modesty, but also out of respect for others.

People of size often find themselves reviled. I fully understand this, I make a point of never giving anyone any more ammunition than they already have.

Call me fat-ass…I earned it I suppose. But no one will ever point and laugh at me walking around in a Speedo. I have more respect for myself, and others, than that.

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Despite my harsh judgement of exercise pants being ill-fitted to an un-exercised body, I think we’re all wonderful in our own way.

I feel the need here to state that I have NO issue with a large girl dressing  herself to feel confident. None whatsoever. In fact, I love seeing a person of size, female or male, dressed with flair and a little sense of adventure.

Bold colours, great accessories, or just looking dapper; they all serve notice to haters that we, the plussers of the world, are strong, beautiful and worthy of respect. To some, it’s even a mother lode of eye candy.

Big is beautiful, if you do big with flair!

Big is beautiful, if you do big with flair!

It also serves to shatter that hateful stereotype that fat means ugly. Plus sized is perfect when it’s swathed in sophistication. It’s only ugly when it’s turned into a carnival of cottage cheese, camel toes and crack cleavage.

There are those out there that will utter “don’t like, don’t look”. OK, fair enough. How many train wrecks have you been consciously able to look away from.

Things that make you go HMMMMMM… 

I don’t know of any woman who finds herself on the receiving end of a compliment when looking like a tsunami of cellulite in Daisy Dukes. Nor is a man likely to be commended for wearing jeans that ride so low that they bring into existence his own personal lunar eclipse.

All I want to do is slip a quarter in there just to see what comes out of the dispenser.

I think I’m going to start aimlessly wandering the downtown streets wearing my pyjama bottoms. Maybe I’ll run them through the sewing machine, so they’ll be sized incorrectly. I’ll do so just to show them my version of “what not to wear”.

I’ll deliberately lumber about with the crack of my asses hanging out for everyone see. You can bet I’ll make a point of throwing that hot mess into the faces of these clueless women (and men) just to see if it triggers any form of self-recognition within them. 

Perhaps, in some alternate universe, they might just see themselves the way the rest of the world does. Miraculously, they’ll have that grand epiphany; suddenly wanting to dress their bodies instead of wearing tourniquet-inspired crap in an ill-conceived attempt to disguise them.

That, or they’ll keep on keeping on, no doubt someday finding themselves featured on “The People of Wal-Mart” website.

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