I am loving the new trend in clothes: bigger is better. Sweaters, coats, and dresses are slouchier and oversized, but not sloppy. Cuts are asymmetrical; shirt backs are longer than fronts so our tushes are covered when we wear leggings; fabrics are drapier, softer and sexier.
Fashion mavens claim it’s better to wear more fitted clothes when you’ve got a little heft (like I do in my hips), and although the latest designs are definitely not fitted, they’re still flattering. Hip and fresh, too.
When I was 42 and weighed 127 pounds, I loved sliding into pencil thin slacks, fitted blazers and tight-ish tops. I’ll never see 127 again–and 42 is ancient history–but I’ve outgrown that look anyway (figuratively as well as literally.)
There’s something liberating about clothes that don’t force us to suck in our tummies and scrunch in our waists. I want to be fit and healthy, but I don’t need to be a size 8 anymore. It was fun while it lasted, but it was destined not to last forever.
I’ll never forget seeing my 61-old-friend in her bra and undies when I was a svelte 41. Although Mary was a size 2, her tummy was slack and hung a bit over her bikinis. Is that what happens in your sixties, I thought.