Hunters and soldiers dress themselves according to their surroundings to blend into the scenery, to obscure themselves from plain view.
I,on the other hand, have elevated Fat-o-flage to an artform.

It is a necessary evil for those of us who have always been sort of heavy, when even at our smallest we were still considered “fat” and harrassed. I learned early on to wear baggy blouses with tight leggings, giving the illusion of skinny bottom and indeterminate top size. it also served as a deterrent to the age old problem  of chesty women: guys who seem to think our eyes are down there. Can’t gawk at what is hidden under voluminous fabric.

I have been termed chubby my whole life.
I have always had a pot belly. When I was 12, my pediatrician told me I could do all the sit ups I wanted but my belly was in part to genetics as both my parents had a belly.
Now, some factions will say this is a bullshit excuse for overeating and laziness.
The only gluttony I am guilty of is Dr, Pepper and Cake vodka.

The most magical part of fat-o-flage, after the diaphanous shirts, is a tummy flattening girdle. That way if your muffin top makes you self conscious you can smoothe it all down so that it at least looks uniformly plump.
Another trick I have learned, even though I certainly don’t need the padding, is padded bras give you “shelf boob” which keeps your shirt from clinging to your belly and makes your boobs stand out.
This is at odds with what I used to practice, but given a choice, I’d rather have my boobs stared at than have some perfect strange note my pot belly and ask my due date. (It has happened more times than I care to admit.)

I do NOT like the term fat.
I used fat o flage as a humorous term.
I prefer to be called fluffy.
Like a big fluffy kitty cat.
It is bad enough to feel self conscious at every moment, but to go through life feeling like you must wear muumuus to keep people from commenting on your weight sucks.
But I always liked baggy shirts so I guess it’s no hardship for me.

One thing about it.
Fatoflage, as far as girdles go, is not a comfortable artform.
In fact, if the government wanted to get these suspected terrorists to talk, they should stuff them into a girdle or bustiere with boning in it.
And an underwire bra with the wire stabbing them in the arm pit.
And thong underwear so they could become intimate with the wedgie from hell.
And stiletto heels so they could become crippled and plead for mercy if they spilled their secret.

Being a woman is a lot of work. Being a heavy woman, indulging fatoflage, is even harder work.

But it beats looking like a stuffed sausage who needed a pit crew to stuff all the jelly rolls into a sizes too small outfit.
Some females need to learn that size 12 does not mean buy a size two.
Because if their skinny jeans ever split at the seams, someone could lose an eye.

Least with fatoflage you’re actually being helpful. In the event of a disaster, you can offer to tear off strips of excess fabric for people to use as blankets.


One Response to “Fat-o-flage”

  1. I once had the underwire in my bra cup COME OUT of the bra cup in the wash. I still don’t know where it went.

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