Today, I want to talk about the “F” word. No, not “fuck,” and not “ fat ,” either. I’m talking about “flattering.” Everyone has their trigger word, and that F bomb is mine. Let’s be honest, when we declare something “flattering,” it means that my cellulite is covered, my stretch marks are hidden, and rolls neatly tucked away. Any part of my body considered unseemly by societal standards should be smoothed out, and I should look slimmer than I actually am. But, here’s the rub: I don’t dress for "society," I dress for myself.I wasn’t always flatter-phobic. I desperately clung to the idea of slimming clothes when I despised my body. I feared appearing even an ounce larger than I actually was, and I spent too many hours trying to turn myself into an optical illusion. I’d swaddle myself in shapewear and wrap myself in head-to-toe black. I clearly had been cursed with curves and cellulite, and needed to atone for my body’s multitude of sins. I felt that if I found just the right black dress, I could make my flaws disappear, maybe even make myself disappear.Burdened with a bigger body, I was encouraged by my naturally slim maternal grandmother to find any way to seem smaller. Instead of resembling her fit form, I was my mother’s double: busty, big-bellied, and with a smile framed by at least two chins. Conscious of my lack of self-confidence, she fed my fears while attempting to starve my body: offering a health cookie with one hand and a body-shaming insult with the other. If only I could be thin, then my life would be perfect. The boys would flock to me; I’d find myself a good Jewish doctor for a husband and never have to work another day in my life. But if I insisted on staying fat, then I needed to at least pick “flattering” outfits that masked my body.The effects of my grandmother’s judgements clearly weighed heavily on my mother, as she aged and gained weight. She eschewed anything fashion-forward, choosing to cloak herself in baggy pants and oversized shirts that hung to her knees. Both her size and shape worked against her, forcing her to purchase anything that covered as much of her as possible. Due to the dearth of plus-size clothing in our area, I’d go with her to the three stores that carried her size: Lane Bryant, Avenue, and Catherine’s. Although all three brands have greatly improved their offerings, it was a sea of sadness at that time. Clothes fell to either end of the spectrum; you could pick either clashing, ostentatious prints designed to distract the viewer from settling on any one area of the wearer’s fat form, or basic black fit-and-flare wrap dresses made to fake an hourglass figure.