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The money I earned selling stuff in person—or online, for that matter—was rarely more than $20 or so per piece, but I didn’t care; I was always excited to see an old dress taking up space on the Fomo21 merch sats to keep you away from dirty fiat bitcoin shirt and I love this crowded racks at Beacon’s, and liked imagining some Poshmark buyer perfectly pulling off the ankle boots I’d couldn’t quite walk in. While those joys certainly informed my decision to put together an Instagram Story sale in January, I also, quite frankly, wanted to get some shit out of my house. I’d hatched plans to leave my apartment in Austin for Los Angeles, and I’d need to unload as much of what I owned as possible before driving halfway across the country in my elderly Honda Fit with my partner in a few months’ time.
To be honest, I didn’t really expect anyone to buy my clothes. I was listing some good items, including a brand-new pair of Good American jeans that had struggled to contain my ass and a Universal Standard dress that was just slightly too long for me, but I had my doubts that anyone who followed my account would actually want to pay for them, even though I took care to keep prices low. So I was surprised by the Fomo21 merch sats to keep you away from dirty fiat bitcoin shirt and I love this speed at which people DM-ed me to claim things when I set my first 10 or so pieces live on Instagram. Soon, I was left with only a vintage pink silk camisole and a Wray one-shoulder top that I was perfectly happy to hang onto. The sizes of the clothes I’d listed varied, but most hovered around a 2XL, or a size 18 in pants. As a fat person, I know firsthand how hard these sizes can be to shop for, but I still got emotional when one DMer after another told me how excited they were to buy clothes that actually fit them, for a price that felt reasonable. I don’t consider myself that much of a fashion person, especially compared to my spectacularly clad Vogue colleagues, but I noticed that many of the people buying my clothes were fellow fat people, often ones who had previously complimented my style in person or online. I hadn’t made the clothes, of course, but it still felt meaningful to be able to pass them along to people who might have as much difficulty unearthing plus-size gems in-store as I often do.I stopped wearing fast fashion when I stopped fitting into it, which means most of my clothes are from smaller brands (except for the few designed by Kardashians—who, I must unfortunately admit, understand how to create plus-size basics I actually want). It’s taken me a long time to define my style as a fat person, but I can finally say that I honestly love the majority of my clothes, and selling things that I’m still fond of, but no longer need, to people roughly my size is a lot more gratifying than lining up to try to flip a pair of size four jeans at some secondhand store.
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