Fan of Much Master of Nothing

A friend of a friend won a free consultation with Clinton Kelly of What Not To Wear, and she was very excited, because she has a plus-size body, and wanted some tips on how to make the most of her wardrobe in a fashion culture which deliberately puts her body at a disadvantage.

Her first question for him was this: how do celebrities make a plain white t-shirt and a pair of weekend jeans look chic?  She always assumed it was because so many celebrities have, by nature or by design, very slender frames, and because they can afford very expensive clothing.  But when she watched What Not To Wear, she noticed that women of all sizes ended up in cute clothes that really fit their bodies and looked great.  She had tried to apply some guidelines from the show into her own wardrobe, but with only mixed success.  So - what gives?

His answer was that everything you will ever see on a celebrity’s body, including their outfits when they’re out and about and they just get caught by a paparazzo, has been tailored, and the same goes for everything on What Not To Wear.  Jeans, blazers, dresses - everything right down to plain t-shirts and camisoles.  He pointed out that historically, up until the last few generations, the vast majority of people either made their own clothing or had their clothing made by tailors and seamstresses.  You had your clothing made to accommodate the measurements of your individual body, and then you moved the fuck on.  Nothing on the show or in People magazine is off the rack and unaltered.  He said that what they do is ignore the actual size numbers on the tags, find something that fits an individual’s widest place, and then have it completely altered to fit.  That’s how celebrities have jeans that magically fit them all over, and the rest of us chumps can’t ever find a pair that doesn’t gape here or ride up or slouch down or have about four yards of extra fabric here and there.

I knew that having dresses and blazers altered was probably something they were doing, but to me, having alterations done generally means having my jeans hemmed and then simply living with the fact that I will always be adjusting my clothing while I’m wearing it because I have curves from here to ya-ya, some things don’t fit right, and the world is just unfair that way.  I didn’t think that having everything tailored was something that people did. 

It’s so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t know this.  But no one ever told me.  I was told about bikini season and dieting and targeting your “problem areas” and avoiding horizontal stripes.  No one told me that Jennifer Aniston is out there wearing a bigger size of Ralph Lauren t-shirt and having it altered to fit her.

I sat there after I was told this story, and I really thought about how hard I have worked not to care about the number or the letter on the tag of my clothes, how hard I have tried to just love my body the way it is, and where I’ve succeeded and failed.  I thought about all the times I’ve stood in a fitting room and stared up at the lights and bit my lip so hard it bled, just to keep myself from crying about how nothing fits the way it’s supposed to.  No one told me that it wasn’t supposed to.  I guess I just didn’t know.  I was too busy thinking that I was the one that didn’t fit.

I thought about that, and about all the other girls and women out there whose proportions are “wrong,” who can’t find a good pair of work trousers, who can’t fill a sweater, who feel excluded and freakish and sad and frustrated because they have to go up a size, when really the size doesn’t mean anything and it never, ever did, and this is just another bullshit thing thrown in your path to make you feel shitty about yourself.

I thought about all of that, and then I thought that in elementary school, there should be a class for girls where they sit you down and tell you this stuff before you waste years of your life feeling like someone put you together wrong.

shower. not a bath, a shower. use water as hot or cold as u like. u dont even need to wash. just get in under the water and let it run over you for a while. sit on the floor if you gotta.

moisturize everything. use whatever lotion u like. unscented? dollar store lotion? fancy ass 48 hour lotion that makes u smell like a field of wildflowers? use whatever you want, and use it all over. 

put on clean, comfortable clothes. 

put on ur favorite underwear. cute black lacy panties? those ridiculous boxers u bought last christmas with candy cane hearts on the butt? put em on.

drink cold water. use ice. if u want, add some mint or lemon for an extra boost.

clean something. doesn’t have to be anything big. organize one drawer of ur desk. wash five dirty dishes. do a load of laundry. scrub the bathroom sink. 

blast music. listen to something upbeat and dancey and loud, something that’s got lots of energy. sing to it, dance to it, even if you suck at both.

make food. don’t just grab a granola bar to munch. take the time and make food. even if it’s ramen. add something special to it, like a hard boiled egg or some veggies. prepare food, it tastes way better, and you’ll feel like you accomplished something. 

make something. write a short story or a poem, draw a picture, color a picture, fold origami, crochet or knit, sculpt something out of clay, anything artistic. even if you don’t think you’re good at it.

go outside. take a walk. sit in the grass. look at the clouds. smell flowers. put your hands in the dirt and feel the soil against your skin.

call someone. call a loved one, a friend, a family member, call a chat service if you have no one else to call. talk to a stranger on the street. have a conversation and listen to someone’s voice. if you can’t, text or email or whatever, just have some social interaction with another person. even if you don’t say much, listen to them.

Historic Black and White Pictures Restored in Color

Women Delivering Ice, 1918

Times Square, 1947

Portrait Used to Design the Penny. President Lincoln Meets General McClellan – Antietam, Maryland ca September 1862

Marilyn Monroe, 1957

Newspaper boy Ned Parfett sells copies of the evening paper bearing news of Titanic’s sinking the night before. (April 16, 1912)

Easter Eggs for Hitler, c 1944-1945 

Sergeant George Camblair practicing with a gas mask in a smokescreen – Fort Belvoir, Virginia, 1942

Helen Keller meeting Charlie Chaplin in 1919

Painting WWII Propaganda Posters, Port Washington, New York – 8 July 1942

[Read on ao3 if you like]

Sherlock always hated having his hair ruffled or having someone play with his curls, having someone run his fingers through the soft strands he’s spent hours taming in front of the mirror. 

Even when he was a still child, he always dreaded people’s hands on his head because they never knew how sensitive he was, how badly it hurt when their fingertips grazed over his scalp too firmly, when the pressure was too much to bear with the engine of a brain inside his skull that simply never shut off, rattling and steaming, roaring and raging. 

Before he and John are truly a thing, and yet having moved past the stage of ‘we’re just best friends’, his touches are frequent; on his shoulder when Sherlock’s head is buried in the newspaper during breakfast and John walks around the table to get a refill of his coffee, on his wrist during a cab ride in which none of them says anything and they only exchange silent but all-knowing glances as their lips curl upwards, on his ankle when Sherlock’s feet rest in John’s lap when they watch the evening news or a film that Sherlock half-watches, half-predicts. Sherlock is content with how things are progressing, evolving between them, slowly but steadily.

One night, he’s on the verge of falling asleep on the sofa, but still awake enough to feel a blanket being laid over him, wrapped around him, so he doesn’t get cold. A pair of warm lips brushes over his forehead before he hears the receding sound of two feet clad in woollen socks. 

It’s a few nights later that Sherlock dares to rest his head instead of his feet in John’s lap. John looks surprised at first, but then he smiles as one of his hands finds its place on Sherlock’s shoulder. They’re watching the latest bond movie that John has on DVD, and Sherlock is unexpectedly quiet. John’s body is warm, and his fingers draw soothing circles on Sherlock’s shoulder blade. As the movie continues, John’s fingers begin their journey. They swirl around a few curls on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and although Sherlock freezes a little and goes rigid involuntarily, in fear it might be too much, but he starts to enjoy it after a while. John notices, of course he does, and quietly asks, “this all right?” He’s the first to ever ask him this question before touching him.

Sherlock wants to nod, but his head feels heavy and comfortable, so he hums “mhm,” instead. It’s only his nape he focuses on, but it’s enough for now. It’s just right.

And so John keeps going, and he grows to love it. He enjoys it so much it becomes a regular occurrence. At least when they’re in private; when nobody sees. During movie nights, or crap-telly nights or quiet nights in front of the fire. He progresses slowly, always starting in the back of his neck, sometimes that’s all he touches, but as time passes, he ventures further, running his hand through the curly, messy mop on Sherlock’s head. And God, the first time he does it, Sherlock’s entire body is covered in goosebumps. He shivers and can’t help but let out a muffled gasp. John’s hand retreats then, pulling back enough as to not overwhelm him, but never completely, never all at once. 

One night, they come back home from an exhausting case that has lasted for over a week. And this time, it’s not adrenaline they feel from having solved it, no, there’s none of that, as rare as it may be, but this time, they’re both drained, fatigued, and knackered. Sherlock hasn’t slept in days, and when he did, his brain wouldn’t shut off properly; John’s only taken power-naps, which have lost its power-giving function on day three. Sherlock is so worked up, adrenaline and weariness fighting for the upper hand inside him, he lets his coat and jacket fall over the backrest of his armchair and sits down, groaning in frustration. His fingers dig hard into his curls, pulling, pressing against his scalp, almost tearing, to make it stop, to just make it quiet. But it won’t, the engine simply rattles on, puffing and blowing and–

releasing steam when …

two hands reach for his own, unclench his fists and remove his hands from the raging machine inside him. “Come on,” John whispers almost inaudibly, pulling him to his feet. “Into bed with you.”

“I––”

“I know,” is all John says as he guides him down the corridor, into Sherlock’s bedroom. The room is dark except for the light shining through the window from the street lamps. 

Sherlock stands there, frozen on the spot. He can hear John exhale quietly and see the tired smile on his lips, and then there are fingers on the buttons of his shirt, pushing each one through its hole. John makes quick work of it; there is nothing suggestive about it as it should be, considering he is undressing him for the first time since … well, this started. But they’re both too tired to think too hard about it or to care, and then Sherlock’s shirt is gone, and he steps out of his trousers and leaves his socks on the floor, and is led to his bed. He doesn’t know how he managed to tell John “Stay,” but somehow he does, and John’s smile widens despite the weight that pulls his lids down and makes his eyes seem so small. 

“I’ll be right there,” he tells Sherlock whose fingers cling to the sleeve of John’s jumper that now slips through them like sand. Then he disappears in the dark hall. Sherlock hears the door of their cupboard closing and the tap running,  then there are steps growing louder, and then John is back, handing him a glass of water. “Drink,” he says quietly, and Sherlock does without hesitation. Before he finishes, John has already stripped down to his vest and pants and is now sliding into bed behind him. It feels exciting and new, making his chest tingle and his heart beat faster. John takes the glass from him once he emptied it and sets it down on the bedside table. Sherlock turns towards him, resting his head on John’s shoulder, feeling how an arm winds around him protectively and pulls him closer. One hand lies on his waist, but the other disappears in his hair and stays there, motionless at first, and when John feels it’s all right to move, he does so slowly and gently and tenderly. 

Sherlock already expects the worst, waiting for the explosion to set off, but nothing of the sort happens. Instead, the buzzing quietens down, the rattling slowly comes to a halt. He dares to take a deep breath. The machine stays silent and still. John has found the off-switch. 

“‘nk you,” he mumbles wearily against John’s chest. 

“No need,” John whispers, and then, “Sleep well, love.” 

If Sherlock weren’t so tired, he’d properly process what John has just said, but instead, he succumbs and is dragged into the peaceful darkness his body has been craving for days, ineffably grateful that the touch of the person who matters the most doesn’t feel excruciating and agonising but soothing, comforting and breathtakingly pleasant. 

I miss him. This version of him. I always ‘like’ Sherlock, but this version was different; the vulnerability, the self awareness that led to self loathing at times, the fear just below the surface that with one word John Watson could abandon him. The compassion and care for others he tried to hide, and successfully did all too often as people did not see. This man who got high on John Watson and couldn’t quit, he would never ever want to quit. Sherlock the heart, Sherlock in love, Sherlock openly gay. To attempt to turn this Sherlock into Rathbone’s version, as if that was in anyway the plan all along, lacked insight, and above all respect and love for the incarnation that emerged from the fates circling over BBC Sherlock. The writers fought their own creation, brought to life by their chosen actor and a crew of creatives, and in the end reduced him. 

It wasn’t unusual to walk into Tony’s lab and hear music blaring from the speakers. What was unusual was that Tony was sitting. And, like, just sitting. Tony was a pretty busy guy. He was usually poking at the thingamajic or messing with the doohickey, or if he was sitting, he was looking at some hologram or another.

alternating with