reality.

But brushing your teeth for 30 seconds is better than not brushing them at all when that 2 minutes seems exhausting.  Doing ten minutes of yoga is better than 10 minutes of sitting when 30 minutes of cardio sounds impossible.  Changing my clothes is good when a whole shower is impossible.  Standing on the porch for a few minutes is worth it after being in the house for three straight days because I don’t have the energy to go anywhere.

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.

Taash is very good at sharing, you guys.

When they were a little kid, they weren’t exactly so little. Tama was careful to teach them how to control their strength, and treat others gently. Mostly with a board book called ‘Pat the Nug.’

Sharing was a part of this. Also, Tama was just a really generous person, and Taash likes to think they carry on that legacy.

But that doesn’t mean Taash will let someone walk all over them. Or their friends.

The day someone almost steps on Harding in a Minrathous market, Taash almost loses it.

“Hey, she’s walking here!”

The mage snorts and barely looks at Harding, who is rubbing her shin.

“Perhaps she should carry a sign.”

It's all okay in the end. Turns out that mage owed most of the merchants in the area a lot of money, so no one complains when they dump him at the nearest Templar outpost and run.

The day Lucanis is snubbed for service at a cafe for being an “abomination” Taash leans very carefully on the thin wooden counter and eyes the various kettles boiling on the back burners.

“Looks pretty hot,” they say, with a look at a very pretty, delicate, teapot. They meet the eyes of the barista. They let just a trickle of smoke leak out of the corner of their mouth.

“Would you like it a little hotter?”

Lucanis’s coffee is free.

Then comes a rare day of beauty in Hossberg. The wardens are in good spirits, enjoying the warm sun, and the endless blue sky.

Emmrich is showing some magic tricks to Manfred and a huddle of little kids. This particular one is a favorite: dancing skeletons made from mice, birds, and squirrels.

It's cute, even if it rubs Taash the wrong way.

So they notice when a warden they haven’t seen before strides in and backhands Emmrich across the face.

“Death mage! Corrupting our children!” he screams, spittle flying from his red face as the mage sprawls backwards in the mud and snow.

A dozen people react immediately, but they are too slow.

The warden’s shoulder cracks as a large hand squeezes it. He smells fire, and brimstone as a voice hisses in his ear.

“My death mage,” Taash tells him, “your mistake.”