Riddle me this, Batman.
I was pretty skinny in my college days. Blessed with a high metabolism and a neurosis about my weight, I looked pretty darn good—especially for someone who never met a donut she didn’t like. Depending on the cut and maker, my clothes were in the 5-6-7 range for size.
Fast forward 15 years and 25 additional pounds (darned metabolism slowed down after my 30th birthday). I may not fall in the “heifer” range, but there’s definitely more of me than there used to be. Yet what size are the pants on my body right now?
Yep, you read that right. Somehow I’ve miraculously managed to gain a two-year-old on my hips and still wear the same size I did in college. Hmmmmm…
We wonder why the American public is overweight. If you can continue to buy clothes in the same size you always have, why bother questioning that additional flesh?
I have a skirt in my closet from the Gap that’s a size 4. I was never a 4 in my skinny days, and I know for darn sure my current butt is not an actual size 4. Let me tell you, though, I did a happy dance around the dressing room when I slipped that 4 on (completely ignoring the jiggling cellulite that proved I was no size 4). I could have looked like death in a taco and I still would have bought that skirt, simply because it was a 4.
Vanity sizing, they call it. I call it insanity. It’s bad enough women have never been able to actually be a size. Men never have the joy of taking three of the same pairs of pants in different sizes to the dressing room because a size 8 is not standard across the board. The clothes in my closet range from a 4 (my lovely little skirt) to a size 12 (a pair of pants that hurt me just to look at the label). I cover the whole Small-Medium-Large range. I think clothing manufacturers actually hate women and get an evil giggle out of watching us try to decide what size we are today…
As I type up this little rant on the injustices of clothing designers and the increasing girth of my thighs, I can’t help but notice the collection of books in my TBR pile. I’ve never been a fan of the “hook” titles some of the series lines favor, but now I’m starting to see the attraction. When you pick up a book titled “The Millionaire Cowboy’s Secret Pregnant Bride,” you know exactly what the book will be about. No question about it. No trying out “Love’s Secret Splendor” and “The Willow and The Fern” hoping there might be a millionaire cowboy waiting inside.
So where am I headed with this post?
I don’t know. It’s a rant and I tied it into books.
What kind of titles do you like? The "hooky" ones, or the more poetic (if vague) ones? Have you ever bought (or not bought) a book simply because of the title?