LitFashionCurator

I never expected to cry over a dress. Not the good kind of cry, anyway. Growing up in a financially strapped household, clothes were about function, not flair. My mother worked at a school and brought home lunch leftovers to build up our food at home. My absentee father sent nothing but silence and disappointment through the mail. When he did make an appearance, he acted like he was doing us a favor. Shopping was a luxury we couldn’t afford, so most of my wardrobe came from church drives, thrift stores, or the occassional clearance rack at an off-discount store. When I got engaged, I knew there wouldn’t be a grand wedding or champagne-soaked reception. We planned to marry at the local justice of the peace, then have a potluck at the VFW post in Dedham, Massachusetts. Still, something inside me longed for a beautiful dress. Not just any dress, but the dress—the one that made you feel like the world might pause for you, even for just a moment. I didn’t have the heart to tell anyone...

For years, I buried myself in oversized clothes, hoping the world wouldn't notice my large breasts and even larger butt. I had a woman's figure since I was eleven years old. I was well-developed than most girls my age. Everything I wore hugged my curves in ways that made me a target for both boys and men. As I grew older, another issue emerged - I was a stress eater. If I had a bad day at school, I'd come home and stuff my face with whatever was in the fridge. Sometimes there wasn't anything but breakfast trays my mom brought home from her school cafeteria job. But on the days when Mpm received her food stamps, the fridge would be brimming with all kinds of goodies. That's when I'd really go to town if I had a bad day. Soon, I was hoping the world wouldn't notice the extra weight I carried, so I wore oversized sweaters, pants, and dresses to hide the bulges. My spirit was heavy as well. I was constantly bullied by other kids about my appearance and did...