There is a recurring myth in the textile industry that the moment a woman’s dress size enters the double digits, her aesthetic preference immediately reverts to “Grandma’s Guest Bedroom.”
I have spent years scouring the racks for clothing that says “I am a powerful, sophisticated woman of a certain vintage,” only to be met with a sea of cabbage roses and puff sleeves that make me look less like a Goddess and more like a very large, upholstered ottoman. It is a mystery of the modern world: why does the fashion industry believe that the more surface area we have, the more cartoon characters we want to wear on our chests?
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