Metro Pulse/View from a Broad/The Empire's New Clothes

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by Tamar Wilner

No matter how much I train myself to the contrary, I still can't help grabbing a size 12 off the rack.

Something clicked into place a few days ago, when I happened to glance through my daily planner and noticed the Clothing Sizes Conversion Chart. Apparently, in England, I'm a 14, maybe even a 16. Ahh, I thought. No wonder, on the odd occasions I've tried on clothes in the U.K., I've found them unbearably small.

My planner's guidance came in handy this week, as I began part-time work making sandwiches in an Oxford delicatessen. It's an upscale place, with imported biscuits, three kinds of Brie and a half-dozen varieties of olives, so I've been asked not to wear jeans. A quick look in the closet revealed my wardrobe's inadequacy: two pairs of jeans, two pairs of wool pants (unbearable in May), a pair of dry clean-only dress trousers and some glaringly white slacks. Not what you'd like to wear when slapping cranberry sauce on roast chicken. I needed to go shopping.

Who could have imagined the simple act of buying a pair of pants could be so complicated? In Knoxville, whenever I needed a new pair of socks or shoelaces, I would hop on KAT's West Town Mall Express. A quick duck into one or two stores was usually all I needed to find the item in question, and good thing, too. The agonizingly slowness of West Town's citizens, walking four or five abreast to prevent anyone passing, drove me absolutely batty. The return journey took about an hour and cost $2, so I figured I should probably stay longer than 30 minutes to make the trip worth it. If I could stand to stroll around a bit longer, I might remember something else I needed, and avoid another gratuitous journey on the No. 15. But the slow walking, weird ambient light, piped-in music and sounds of a thousand cash registers ringing all crashed together in an awful cacophony of commercialism, causing me to flee the building like a vampire escaping the light of day.

Still, finding pants in Knoxville was quick. In Oxford, it took me about four hours—spread out over two days—to find trousers that met these simple qualifications: They must be machine washable. They must cost under £20 (about $30). They must fit.

This last requirement proved the stickiest. In store after store I would

follow the same procedure. 1) Find a pair I liked. 2) Take the 12 off the rack and look at it. 3) Stare at the waistband, usually held taught by some tortuous-looking device that passed for a clothes hanger, and think, "Surely that's big enough." 4) Think, "But U.K. sizes are smaller. Better take a 14 as well." 5) Proceed to dressing room, where I found myself no more adept at closing a zipper than I would be at balancing dinner plates on my nose. 6) After kicking up a good sweat trying to get into the 14, I'd concede that yes, I am a 16. Return to rack. Find no 16s. Cry.

To the English, I am right on the cusp of the plus sizes. I shouldn't be too shocked—I've never been a waif. But at 5'6" and 150 pounds, I am a bit taller, and therefore a bit thinner, than the average American woman. Supposedly, I'm one size smaller than Marilyn Monroe. Supposedly.

So what was happening here? Were those renumbered trouser sizes and cruel hangers trying to send me a message? "You there—fat American slob! Could you try to eat a little less food than would be supplied to an 8-year-old stallion at The Grand National?"

It's unlikely the clothes manufacturers were that intentionally cruel, but if there's one thing that separates the eating habits of the Americans and the British, it's portion size. After all, the content of the Limey diet is anything but lean; chips, cream and chocolate abound. A typical dinner at my English in-laws' involves roast chicken, potatoes, stuffing and broccoli swimming in a gravy moat the depth of the Fountain City duck pond. Very similar, in fact, to my occasional indulgences at Pete's Cafe, but Pete gives twice as much for lunch as the mum-in-law does for dinner. While I see Mrs. Newton's portions as far more reasonably sized, I must confess I sometimes leave the family table feeling just an eensy bit hungry.

So, I picked my way down Oxford's Cornmarket Street, trying to find a retailer who would stock my ridiculous size. Cornmarket is about the width of Gay Street and closed to vehicles; but with construction tearing up the asphalt, the pedestrian flow has been choked into an I-40-like bottleneck. I bobbed and weaved frantically, two-stepping to avoid another pram, occasionally lurching to a complete stop. And yet, I didn't really mind. The air was fresh out here. The 14th-century Carfax tower stood sentinel before me; the remnants of an Anglo-Saxon church lay not far behind. I could have paraded down that street all day, no matter what size the Brits say I am.

Then the true joy of shopping in Oxford struck me: I could leave any time. I just had to turn on my heel and walk 15 minutes north to my flat. I didn't have to take a bus, or locate a car. I didn't have to keep shopping to make the trip "worth it." And, no matter how much I walked, I never accidentally wandered into a food court stuffed with 26 different ways of caking my arteries. Awash in a feeling of triumph, I plunked down £8 for my new trousers, and contemplated buying a Cadbury's Dairy Milk for the walk home.