Negotiating with Ghosts

Standing in front of the mirror with a yellow plastic tape measure wrapped around my waist, I feel like I’m trying to negotiate with a ghost. The metallic tab at the end of the tape is cold against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of frustration rising in my neck. I’ve just spent 31 minutes scrolling through five different websites, and according to their charts, I am simultaneously a Medium, an Extra-Large, and a ‘Size 2’ which I haven’t been since I was 11 years old. I try to speak, to curse the industry, but I bite my tongue-right on the same spot I nicked during lunch-and the sharp sting of salt and copper makes me wince. It’s a physical manifestation of the psychic damage this industry does. We are told our bodies are the problem when, in reality, the blueprints are just wrong.

The World of Absolute Tolerances

I’m a building code inspector by trade. Jade H., the woman who walks onto a job site and tells a multi-million dollar developer that their foundation is 1 inch off-center and therefore the whole thing is a liability. I live in a world of absolute tolerances. A 2×4 is a 2×4, at least in theory, though we know the actual dimensions are smaller. But in construction, there is a standard. There is a code. If the stairs aren’t 11 inches deep, someone is going to trip. But in the world of shapewear, there is no code. There is only a series of suggestions meant to make you feel like you’ve failed a test you never signed up to take. I look at the three bodysuits sitting on my bathroom counter. One is a Large that feels like it was designed for a very tall toddler. One is an XL that has so little tension it’s basically just a very expensive second skin that does nothing but make me sweat. The last is a Medium that I can’t even get past my mid-thighs.

It’s a quiet form of gaslighting that happens in the privacy of your own bedroom, usually under the worst possible lighting. I see it on the job sites too, sometimes. A contractor will try to hide a structural flaw with drywall and a bit of paint, hoping the inspector won’t notice the bulge. We do the same to ourselves, except we’re the ones paying for the privilege of being squeezed into a mold that doesn’t exist.

The Profit of Confusion

I think about the 151 different women I’ve met through my work, from architects to pipefitters, and not one of them has ever expressed a sense of peace when it comes to shopping for foundation garments. We are all living in this state of perpetual measurement-anxiety. Why is it that I can buy a 21-piece wrench set and know exactly what I’m getting, but I can’t buy a piece of fabric designed to hold me together without feeling like I’m playing a high-stakes game of roulette? The industry relies on our confusion. If you don’t know your size, you buy two. You return one, or you forget to, and they keep your $61. It’s a cycle of profit built on the foundation of our insecurity.

The body is the only truth in a room full of lying mirrors.

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The Recursive Loop of Self-Blame

I’ve spent 41 years inhabiting this skin, and yet, every time I go to buy a new piece of shapewear, I feel like a stranger to myself. I start questioning if I measured correctly. Maybe the tape was too loose? Maybe I was bloating because of that sourdough bread? It’s a recursive loop of self-blame. My tongue still hurts from where I bit it, a dull throb that reminds me to slow down. I need to stop rushing into the ‘add to cart’ frenzy sparked by a targeted ad. I need to look for the exceptions to the rule. I’m looking for something that respects the math.

I found that in

SleekLine Shapewear, where the numbers actually seem to correlate with the human form rather than some aspirational mannequin. It shouldn’t feel like a revolution to have a size chart that works, but in an industry built on smoke and mirrors, a bit of honesty feels like a radical act.

When one brand’s 31-inch waist is actually 33 inches, and another’s is 29, we lose the ability to speak the same language. We are left shouting into a void of spandex and nylon, wondering why nothing feels right. I’ve seen 11 different ‘definitive’ guides on how to measure yourself, and all of them contradict each other. What if you don’t have a narrowest point today because you’re human and you had a large glass of water?

The Structural Support Test

The emotional endurance test isn’t just about the fit; it’s about the expectation. We expect these garments to solve a problem, but the problem is often the garment itself. We are looking for a structural support that doesn’t exist in a vacuum. We want to feel secure, like a building with a 101-year guarantee. Instead, we feel like a temporary scaffolding held together with duct tape and hope.

I remember a project back in 2021-a small library that had been built with the wrong grade of steel. It looked fine from the outside, but as soon as you put books on the shelves, the floors started to sag. That’s what bad shapewear does. It looks fine on the hanger, but as soon as you put a real life into it-sitting, breathing, eating, laughing-it fails. It rolls down, it digs in, it betrays the very body it’s supposed to celebrate.

The Expectation of 100% Reliability

I’m tired of the betrayal. I’m tired of the 51-percent rule where I’m only happy with my reflection half the time. I want a 100-percent success rate, or at least something close to it. I want to be able to order a garment and know that the Large I receive today will be the same Large I receive next year. Is that too much to ask? In the world of building codes, if a fire door fails to latch 1 out of 10 times, it’s a failure. In the world of fashion, if a garment fits 1 out of 10 women, it’s a ‘niche product.’ We’ve lowered our standards so much that we’ve forgotten what a good fit actually feels like. It shouldn’t feel like a struggle. It should feel like the moment I sign off on a finished build, knowing every bolt is tight and every beam is true.

There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from being an inspector. You spend your day looking for what’s wrong, for the cracks in the facade. You come home and you just want things to be right. You don’t want to have to inspect your own wardrobe. You don’t want to have to verify the integrity of your underwear. But here I am, with my aching tongue and my 31-inch waist, doing exactly that. I’m realizing that the only way to win this game is to refuse to play by their shifting rules. I’m going to stop buying from brands that use ‘S/M/L’ as a catch-all for the infinite variety of the human shape. I’m going to demand more. I’m going to look for the precision I require at work in the things I wear to work.

Refusing the Mold

Consistency is the only true luxury.

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Maybe the real problem is that we’ve been conditioned to think our bodies are fluid and the clothes are solid. We think we have to change to fit the fabric. But as any good architect will tell you, the structure must serve the inhabitants, not the other way around. If the house is uncomfortable, you don’t blame the people living in it; you blame the design.

The Original Beams

I think back to a renovation I inspected last month. The owner was trying to turn a 121-year-old barn into a modern loft. The original beams were hand-hewn, irregular, and beautiful. The contractor tried to use standard, off-the-shelf brackets to secure them, but nothing fit. He was frustrated, cursing the old wood for being ‘difficult.’ I told him, ‘The wood isn’t difficult. It’s original. You’re the one trying to use a standard bracket for a non-standard soul.’ He had to custom-forge the hardware to make it work. That’s how I feel about us. We are the original beams. We are the hand-hewn history of our own lives. We shouldn’t be trying to force ourselves into ‘off-the-shelf’ sizing brackets that were never meant for us.

So I’ll put the tape measure away for now. I’ll let my tongue heal. I’ll stop looking at the numbers as a judgment and start looking at them as data-plain, objective, and ultimately neutral. The ‘Sizing Charade’ only works if we keep pretending the charade is our fault. Once we realize the game is rigged, we can stop playing. We can find the few brands that actually care about the integrity of their measurements. We can demand that the industry stop gaslighting us and start measuring up to our standards. Because at the end of the day, I’m the inspector. And I’m declaring this entire sizing system a code violation.