One Size Fits None

I HAVE ALWAYS HATED FITTING ROOMS. It’s not just that I hate the mirrors meant to trick me into thinking I’m skinnier or the curtains that never close all the way so strangers can glimpse me trying to squirm into too-tight jeans. What I really hate is why I have to go to fitting rooms in the first place: to see if I’ve distilled my unique body shape down to one magic number, knowing full well that I probably won’t be right, and it definitely won’t be magic. I hate that I’m embarrassed to ask a salesperson for help, as if it’s somehow my fault that I’m not short or tall or curvy or skinny enough to match an industry standard. I hate that it feels like nothing fits.

And I’m not alone. “What’s your size?” has always been a loaded question, but it has become virtually impossible to answer in recent years. The rise of so-called vanity sizing has rendered most labels meaningless. As Americans have grown physically larger, brands have shifted their metrics to make shoppers feel skinnier—so much so that a women’s size 12 in 1958 is now a size 6. Those numbers are even more confusing given that a pair of size-6 jeans can vary in the waistband by as much as 6 in., according to one estimate. They’re also discriminatory: 67% of American women wear a size 14 or above, and most stores don’t carry those numbers, however arbitrary they may be.

“Insanity sizing,” as some have dubbed this trend, is frustrating enough for shoppers who try on clothes in stores. But now that $240 billion worth of apparel is purchased online each year, it has become a source of epic wastefulness. Customers return an estimated 40% of what they buy online, mostly because of sizing