The Incredible Shrinking Dress Size

Throughout much of my life, I have maintained a slim figure. Consequently, I often wore the smallest size available for my age. At eight, I fit into a 6x in girls' clothing, and by twelve, I was wearing a size 5 in juniors. This remained true even after a growth spurt carried me from 4’10” to 5’4”, with my weight fluctuating between the low 80s and 105 pounds.

During my late high school years, the size 6 began to appear, much to my mother's astonishment as she had never seen such a small size before—this was the early 1980s.

In college, I began to gain weight, indulging in the delights of American cuisine—think multiple servings of macaroni and cheese, roast beef, and ravioli, sometimes even dessert twice!

By my senior year, I had peaked at 5’5” and 125 pounds, yet I still wore a size 8, likely because the measurements had already started to expand. After a bit of weight loss, thanks to the antics of a new kitten, I visited Ann Taylor expecting to be a size 6, but the sales associate quickly corrected me.

“You’re not a 6,” she said. “You’re a size 4, honey.” To my surprise, she was right.

I realized that at 110 pounds, I was fitting into a smaller size (4) than I had when I weighed 100 (6). Just two years later, I found myself in a size 2, all while my weight remained stable—further illustrating the absurdity of size inflation.

A Seismic Size Shock in the UK and the Return to the US

The absurdity of women’s sizing became even clearer during my time in Oxford for my Ph.D. in 1994. When I inquired about a size 2 skirt, the sales assistant looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “The smallest we have is an 8,” she replied.

After trying it on and finding it a perfect fit, I explained that in the U.S., sizes start at 2. This response was met with laughter in several high street stores, including Topshop and French Connection.

It seemed the British had maintained the original postwar sizing standards, with very little vanity sizing present—a refreshing change.

Sometimes, the smallest size was a 10, and I once encountered an 8 dress that wouldn’t zip up! Perhaps that’s why it was on sale—it clearly catered to those with an ectomorphic physique.

Did it bother me to wear larger sizes? Not at all! What mattered was finding stylish clothing that fit well.

Upon returning to the U.S. in 2001, I encountered a new size—0. By then, I had gained a bit of weight and was fitting into a size 4.

It wasn’t bitterness that led me to find the concept of a size 0 ludicrous. I wondered, what’s next—negative sizes? Why not follow the British example and adjust sizes upwards as the population grows?

The obsession with size fosters a troubling notion: to be a 0, 00, or 000 implies a sense of absence or insignificance. Metaphorically, these sizes suggest nonexistence, as Merriam-Webster defines zero as a term for an “insignificant person or thing.”

Interestingly, in the late 1990s and early 2000s, designer jeans regained popularity, introducing a more standardized sizing based on lower waist measurements, from 25 to 32 inches—similar to men’s sizing. This made more sense and provided consistency across regions.

In 2019, after starting medication for hypothyroidism, I dropped back to my high school weight of around 105 pounds, fitting into size 0's. I had effectively decreased three sizes since high school, underscoring the absurdity of size inflation.

Comparisons Between Sewing Pattern Sizes and Retail Sizing

This is where things become particularly fascinating. I had always known about vanity sizing, but I didn’t grasp its extent until I found a box of vintage dress patterns from the 1970s and 1980s.

Almost all these patterns began at size 8 or sometimes 6, with the largest size being 18. For example, a Butterick pattern from the late 60s or early 70s illustrates this point:

Notably, the size 6 was labeled “petite,” while sizes 8-10 were considered “small.” Today, an 8-10 is generally classified as “medium.”

Examining the actual measurements reveals that a size 6 has a bust-waist-hip measurement of 30 ½–22–32 ½, while the size 8 measures 31 ½–23–33 ½.

The same pattern holds for other brands like Simplicity, with similar measurements for their sizes.

When comparing these measurements to today’s retail sizes, we see significant discrepancies. For instance, J. Crew’s size 000 measures 31-23-33, while size 00 is 32-24-34, and size 0 is 33-25-35.

In essence, these sizes are marginally larger than the corresponding measurements for the 6, 8, and 10 in patterns. The traditional Butterick/Simplicity size 10 now equates to a J. Crew size 0.

Now, let's look at Ralph Lauren, whose size 000 measures 30.5–23.5–33.5—again, the waist and hip measurements exceed those of Butterick and Simplicity’s size 6. The same applies to the size 00.

This illustrates that actual size measurements have not diminished. The smallest bust, waist, and hip measurements have remained around 30–22–32 for the last fifty years, regardless of whether the size is 000 or 6.

Why have pattern books preserved postwar measurements while retail clothing has not? Much of it can be attributed to the desire to boost the customer’s ego.

Think about it—buying patterns is a more private endeavor than shopping in stores, where customers and salespeople may size each other up, both literally and metaphorically.

Perhaps our obsession with thinness contributes to this shrinking size phenomenon. Consider the diverse body types portrayed in Hollywood films from the 1930s to the 1960s, featuring voluptuous women (like Marilyn Monroe) alongside waifs (like Audrey Hepburn) and petite figures (like Debbie Reynolds), compared to today’s predominantly size 2 to 000 actresses.

A Modest Proposal

As we've explored, it’s not that actual size measurements are decreasing; rather, it’s the numerical designations that are shifting. What was once a size 8 is now a 00, and a size 16 has transformed into a 10.

The most disturbing aspect of this size obsession is the expectation for women to conform to a thin and often ectomorphic ideal. This is akin to expecting all cats to resemble Siamese cats or all dogs to look like greyhounds. There are numerous breeds with distinct physiques—why should women be held to one standard?

Moreover, the concept of being a variation of zero—0, 00, or 000—symbolizes absence or insignificance. Our patriarchal society, perhaps threatened by feminism, seems intent on reducing women to nothingness, echoing fears of women excelling academically or professionally.

Not surprisingly, some men may feel that women occupy too much space and desire to diminish our presence, as if it would be preferable for us to disappear entirely.

I propose we revert to the postwar sizing standards used in pattern books, eliminating the 00 and 000 designations. I wouldn't mind if I were categorized as a size 4 or 10; what truly matters is that I am more than just a number.

Furthermore, we should standardize measurements to eliminate the frustration of trying on multiple sizes due to inconsistencies.

After all, we women are not zeros or “insignificant persons or things.” We have lives to lead, experiences to embrace, and places to visit.

© Frances A. Chiu, May 25, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

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