When Fabric No Longer Fits!

Whilst on the subject of fabric, today has become a day different to the previous two. Earlier on in the week I was incredibly inspired and lashed out heavily on purchasing some stunning designer fabrics to make into new creations. Today however, I explored unintentionally the darker side of fabrics. WHEN FABRICS NO LONGER FIT. When fabrics have become excessively eased and stretched beyond an inch of their lives in areas of wear on one's person. When fabrics let you down and make you feel down about yourself. Yes. That's right. Today my pants split...

You are probably wondering why this would be blog worthy news and why would anyone want to hear about my split pants experience. You are not alone. I too, am sitting here wondering why I feel compelled to write this. But here I am and there you are too (if you are reading this). If not, at the very least, I am entertaining myself. There was a series of events leading up to the split pant fiasco and several moments of pause for thought afterwards that led me to surmise that this day of mine has been an inadvertent exploration of 'FABRIC THAT NO LONGER FITS'. Perhaps I will take you back to when my day first started...Well, I opened my eyes and had a little rush of excitement thinking of my fabric purchases online the night before. I briefly fantasized about the lovely creations I will make from these to-die-for fabrics and then the furtive sounds of toddlers climbing on the kitchen bench and possibly shoving little fists into the small hole on the lid of my thermomix, shot me out of bed and my fabric filled reverie. My day had started. So, kids fed, dressed and ready for the drive to school, I go to the bathroom to throw on my no-thinking-reliable-black-pants which I delude myself into thinking cover all my dimples and bulges. I can wear any top with these pants, so it is an easy, quick dress combo to go to kindy in, in the mornings. Well, once at kindy, little bear 4 wants me to sit beside him to do a puzzle. Kindy seats are really very small. I know that a size 10 or 12 yummy bottomed mummy will fit rather neatly into one and feel no strain what-so-ever on her seams, but for me, a thicker-set mummy-that-has-had-too-many-yummies, it is a challenge. It is also a rude reminder that you are no longer in your twenties or even in your thirties and that the forties are being not so kind to you. Or as my long time friend once said to me...it makes you experience one of those 'Shallow Hal' type moments. When you think in your mind that you are smaller than you are and then you walk past a shop window and see a fat person reflected back and that fat person is you. Unfortunately however, I am not Gwyneth Paltrow acting in a movie and wearing a fat suit. I take my costume with me wherever I go. I can't take off my fat suit. Well, not quickly anyway. Moving on... I finished the school run and go home where I have a lovely chat with said, long-time friend. We chatter and laugh and commiserate over times gone by when we could eat what we want, not get down on the floor for a week and still display good mobility without creaking joints and slight ripping sounds of seams. We talk about how all the fuss and commotion is over turning the big '40'. Turning 40 is fine...a breeze...a non-event. It's after you turn 41 and creep up to 42. That's when the proverbial really hits the fan and you go 'wow!', I am getting old. I KNOW! I am sorry, this is sounding very depressing, but it helps me explain my story. So, I finish my comforting conversation with my friend and I think we both go away feeling mildy less worried because we are both going through fat-findings-in-your-forties together. I finally sit down to sew whilst bubs is having a nap. Time passes quickly and I cut it fine to wake bubs and get him in the car to do the school run again. Keys in hand, bubs in the other, I suddenly remember that bubs wanted to walk to his brothers class and I promised to put shoes on him for the afternoon school pickup. I find his shoes on the printer and make the snap decision to quickly, 'throw' my leg up onto the office chair, propping bubs on that thigh, whilst I one-handedly apply his shoes. In this one, normally smooth movement, I hear a loud RIPPING noise and then a cool breeze over my inner thigh, where previously it was quite snug and warm. The sound, the feel of the fabric letting go of its weft and weave cotton connection took a few milliseconds to inform my brain. I lower bubs to the floor, his shoes discarded, as I rub my other hand over my thigh. I felt skin where the fabric should have been, has always been. Until now. Until I got so fat that my pants gave up. The fabric had died, perished, given up. It was too big a job to contain this fat thigh that was constantly being rubbed against it's equally oversized fleshy neighbour. Which was still nestled clothed and smug. But not for long. Pants were removed and inspected. UNREPAIRABLE. They did not split at the seam. I couldn't deflect the blame from myself in developing stupendous thighs and think to myself...poor workmanship. I felt deflated. Reality hit. I HAVE GOT TOO FAT FOR MY PANTS. Running late now for school, bubs follows me to the bathroom and watches as I look for second best black-pull-on-pants that I delude myself into thinking hides everything. They have just been washed. I squeeze into them. Another not so subtle hint that when standing in my bathroom I am slowly filling up the void with my ever growing bodily mass. I can't wear just any top with these pants, as the waist band digs in too deep and graces me with a double whammy, cheese-on-the-side, muffin top with split tummy state of being. It's not an attractive look...muffin top (fat pushed up from waistband as well as fat pushed down from bra), then split tummy (where one's waist band squishes fat above burrowed waistband and fat under burrowed waist band). Anyway, dressed, ego feeling very bruised, I get to school and launch my ample body with child into the throngs of yummy mummies, sucking in my tummy, I throw my head high and try to convince everyone that I am one too. Unfortunately, my delusion gets shattered again not long after. One of the mums invite us over for a play after kindy. I thought it was just me and the kids going and I think to myself...'These pants should contain me until I get home and if I am very careful with the way that I move, bending over to children etc, my top should keep my double whammy tummy hidden from view'. Well the invite was for just a 'quick bevvy and the kids have a play'. I quickly discover that most of the mums from my mums group are coming over and they have brought, curries, pizza ingredients for the kids, pj's and jumpers to stay on until evening. I agree to staying for a few hours and settle in my seat with a small glass of wine and start chatting with the girls. I am not myself and feel rather self conscious. I limit partaking in the double brie and biscuits. The other mums are all 7 to 10 years younger than me and very slim and definitely yummy mummies. EeeK! I am surrounded. It's sink or swim. A bag gets passed around the table. In it is some lovely vintage tops, dresses & skirts. One mum friend holds them up against herself. She has a lovely figure. Some items of clothing are offered around. Unfortunately, I am not part of this particular conversation. Another reminder that I have dressed for comfort for way too long now. Two recent pregnancies and a stay-at-home lifestyle, I have accommodated to my lounge too much and allowed myself to spread. Fabric gets too pricey when you get bigger. You need more of it to pattern from and clothe your plentiful self. Driving home I appease myself with reviewing-the-day thoughts of... 'really, the reason why my pants split is that the fabric was a cheap cotton from China, which was just not able to stand the test of time'. I'm feeling okay again. That is, until this evening when I get out of the shower and go to put my undies on. They are new and the usual size I buy. Sliding up to the top of my thighs, they meet resistance. I rationalize to myself that they are new and they just need to be stretched a little. I try some more. NOPE. They come down again and off. Momentarily, I pause for thought. Mental note to self 'must cut back on biscuits'. I go to my drawer and look for my period undies. They fit and they are comfortable. It is a sad day when your period undies become your everyday undies and you can not ignore the fact that FABRIC NO LONGER FITS. x Tanya