Tabatha Wharton



Another working Saturday, another sweater dress.

It’s a bit strange, now, to wear some things that are from when I was heavier (and healthier). I remember feeling like this dress was a little too bodycon, a little too unforgiving, and feeling like I had to wear four layers of Spanx (and sometimes I did) to make it look “right” not all that long ago.

It’s also taken me a long time (longer than I actually care to admit) to get over things like sizing and the “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts” of what to wear and fit and whatever have you. Every single person is going to have their own preferences and peculiarities and yeah, judgements and trouble zones or whatever, on top of their own senses of style and propriety and all of it, none of it, matters. It’s all in how clothing makes you feel, and the way you carry yourself. So how something is “supposed” to fit is all subjective based on personal preference and where those preferences may be based out of, such as the media projections or mother effing Pinterest or these new “lifestyle” bloggers perpetuating impossible ideals of “imperfect perfection” that are really the same old things the beauty magazines and the fashion industry have been shoving down our throats our entire lives, consumerism based in attaining an impossible ideal that is forever changing due to “trends” and market values.

The size doesn’t matter because it’s an inconsistent social construct and in no way indicative of really anything but a vague amount of fabric and seam placement. The brand or the look doesn’t matter because the valuation of these things only come from what we, the consumers, allow it to occupy. Our appearances are our own construction and our presentations and identities only actually ever exist as we believe inside our own heads — everyone else is going to interpret and process your appearance through their lens, and it will never match up with what you see in the mirror anyway. So fuck it.

And yeah, I know that’s easy for me to say because I’m built like I am and literally model at my age and I benefit from A LOT of privilege in no small part due to my appearance and presentation and my flat out genetics.

But I can say in sincerity that I practice what I preach not just for myself, but I hear it echoed back to me in a not-so-tiny, very independent voice on the regular and that … grants me more freedom to just keep doing whatever the hell I please with my clothes and my appearance, because if it grants a confidence and an understanding of self from go as opposed to having to spend a lifetime fighting for it … then maybe I’m doing something right.

That’s the weird thing about being a parent, sometimes. The ROI on creating humans takes literally nearly a decade to truly begin to pay off … and most of the time, the human you’re creating is yourself.

Mother effing green hair and all.

Striped cotton sweater dress (in tall!): Old Navy
Black fleece-lined tights: Hue
O-Ring belt: Nine West
Three-strand necklace: Express or H&M (can’t remember for sure)
Octagonal hoop earrings: Target
Burgundy plaid flannel infinity scarf: handmade & gifted
Black knit pouf beanie: H&M (… kids)
Princess seam wool car coat: ASOS
Studded leather combat boots: Catherine Malandrino