AN EXCERPT FROM THE 30-SOMETHINGS
Apple with legs
Because this story is about a 30-Something and most definitely not a 20-Something (tall, slim, and what 30-Something dreams are made of), I’m not going to talk about my former glory days as a Taylor Swift impersonator with legs for days.
I still have legs for days, but what sits on top of my legs is the apple.
I’m a walking apple. An apple with legs.
That’s the best description for my body I can give. I’ve got boobs, I’ve got a gut, I’ve got love handles, I’ve somehow managed to get some chunk on my arms too which I’m not pleased about. I get bloated from eating broccoli, and while some days I’m not so critical of my body type, at the end of the day when I strip off and get naked in front of the mirror, the first thing I do is look at my stomach and sigh.
Here’s the shit thing about comparing our bodies to pieces of fruit, even though fashion magazines will run articles like ‘How To Shop For Your Shape To Slay’ or ‘How To Hide Your Hideous Body Parts So The World Doesn’t Have To See But Still Feel Good About Yourself’, all in the name of helping us shop, become fashionable and supposedly be empowered. There’s something missing.
The fashion and clothes designers themselves didn’t get the memo that women’s bodies can be categorised into fruit types. Instead, they just keep on creating clothes that fit supermodels and Taylor Swift’s squad. So unless you’re fabulously huge and shopping at the Plus Sized Store For Sexy Bitches, we normal fruits don’t get anything except lessons in working out the best way to wear something designed for a 13-year-old boy.
It’s weird. I’m at my heaviest and I have the tag on my jeans to prove it, but I’m also not my fattest either. If you’re confused, that’s cool. I get it. Here’s the thing. I’ve gotten myself to a place where I love moving my body and I do it regularly. I’ve been losing fat like the tortoise, slow and steady, but my size hasn’t really changed. So I’m getting healthier and stronger, but I’m smack bang in the middle of still being your average-sized woman.
And this is going to sound so self-indulgent here but let’s give it a whirl... It’s hard being an average-sized woman. I mean, we’re referred to as ‘plus-size’ if we want to get modelling, but we’re not fabulously owning our fatness just yet, with perfect rolls in perfect places.
Yes, I look at those brilliantly big woman and they still seem more perfectly proportioned than me.
And then, on the other end of the spectrum are the women who work for the Taylor Swift Modelling School. So beautifully thin, not an ounce of fat on them. And yes, I think they’re fucking gorgeous too.
I’m in the middle.
A stock standard average-sized woman.
An apple on legs.
That means I’ll never be one size.
Fashion designers hate me.
And that makes me hate myself a little bit because I want to wear pretty clothes.
So, what’s an apple to do?
Develop your own style. Call it something along the lines of street casual chic. But really know it should be called Operation Convince The World You Don’t Actually Look Like An Unattractive Apple On Legs. Cover up the apple and show off the legs. Done.
The reason why it’s the worst being an apple with legs is we don’t actually look like a normal human being, because normal human beings weren’t designed to be so randomly out of proportion, surely. Us apple shapes look at you pear shapes and wish we could be you because at least you’ve got curves in all the right places. We don’t have curves.
This is why I get really jealous of the women who’re owning their fabulous hugeness and flaunting it all over the world in tight clothes that make their tits pop and their ass go pow. I want what they’ve got. I want a body that’s got curves in all the right places. I want to look like I’m in proportion but instead I end up looking like someone who ‘should be thinner’ because with legs and an ass like mine, er, what’s going on with your top half, dude?
When you’re an apple with legs, your body robs you of looking like a woman. And therefore feeling like one.
You’re just a fruit on sticks.
On the flip side, you’ve got the Hollywood-approved models, who even without curves have straight lines in all the right places.
The apple with legs has no sense of proportion to her. Your jeans fit your legs perfectly, but cut into your love handles. Your tops don’t fit your boobs, so you go up a size but then you’re swimming in a tent.
I’ll either have to sacrifice awesome-fitting jeans for a bigger size with too much room for my butt and thighs, or wear the right-fitting jeans for my legs and butt, then deal with being cut in half at the waist, becoming not one apple any longer, but two apples stacked on top of each other.
That’s right. While I’ve been talking about the fact I’m an apple with legs, that only applies to what I look like naked. Try and dress me and I become two apples, stacked on top of each other, the top apple bigger than the bottom one.
Next, I’ll wear an extra baggy t-shirt that I’ll claim I have to buy so it fits over my boobs but secretly it’s so it covers the double apple situation going on up top. And it can’t just be any random t-shirt. The material has to be stiff enough so that it skims over the lumps underneath, not cling in the wrong places, and be long enough so it elongates the body (so I’ve been told). Oh yes, and it has to be V-neck because in regular necklines my boobs look gargantuan. Not the easiest job for the mere t-shirt. To be honest I’m still on the search for the perfect one, but no matter how perfect it is, with the slightest Melbourne breeze that comes through on any given day, that t-shirt is going to be pressed up against my apple-top situation regardless.
So then I need to call in reinforcements, like a cardigan that’ll cover the bits the t shirt can’t cover.
And there is the Elizabeth McKenzie Apple With Legs Street Chic Special.
1. Take one pair of jeans that balance the cutting into your stomach while fitting your legs.
2. Pair with a black t-shirt that is baggy enough to skim straight over your stomach.
3. Cover with a cardigan that will hide your love handles.
And still, after years of mastering this style, I get down about it. And still, I wish I could change it up and wear something different.
The thing that sucks the most now, as a 30-Something average body type, is that when I was a thin 20-Something average body type, I didn’t even appreciate it. If I had that shape now, I’d flaunt it, take it out on a date, and love the shit out of it, but back then I didn’t even know how hot it was. I still berated myself for having love handles. It’s a McKenzie thing; it’s in our genes. We all have love handles. And it appears that no matter how thin we get, those suckers love hanging around.
Look, it’s not like I have an intensely hateful relationship with my body, but let’s get real. I wish it was thinner, tighter, more toned, slimmer, and generally looked more like those bodies in Hollywood. I wish I was a perfectly proportioned woman and not a piece of fruit. I wish I didn’t have to cover up in baggy t-shirts claiming it as my funky-ass street style, all while I was really just hiding my imperfections. And I wish I could do this all without any behaviour modification.
So... not much to ask then.