About a month ago, I was thumbing through my closet, looking for something else, when my eyes landed on one of my favorite things I own: an authentic dirndl I ordered from Germany about four years ago.
Burgundy satin brocade, a crisp white blouse, a green apron, delicate silver clasps and a chain tie. The full Oktoberfest fantasy.
I have some German heritage and look vaguely Eastern European. But honestly, I was built for a dirndl.
Let’s just say it’s a garment designed to celebrate ladies with big ta-tas. Or at least that’s what the St. Pauli Girl logo has led us to believe.
Four years ago, I splurged on it, knowing I’d only wear it once or twice a year at local Oktoberfests, but dreaming of someday wearing it to the real deal in Munich.
The sizing was distinctly European, and while I’d tried to size up for my curves, apparently I hadn’t gone far enough. The dirndl barely fit from day one.
But once I was locked and loaded, it looked amazing.
And every year since, it has gotten harder to put on. Each Oktoberfest required a more elaborate combination of Spanx and extreme breath-holding. And prayer. Lots of prayer.
So when I spotted it in my closet this year, my heart sank. I love that dirndl—it’s truly a work of art—but I had a feeling even divine intervention wasn’t going to cut it anymore. I’ve definitely gained a few pounds in the years since I bought it.
And I’ll admit it: I was petrified it wasn’t going to fit.
I considered my options. I could try it on and confirm my suspicions. I could find a tailor and see if it could be let out.
Or door number three: I could just buy a bigger size.
So I went back to the German website where I’d bought the original and consulted ChatGPT to figure out the right size. (Complain all you want about AI, but my personal ChatGPT is basically the 2026 version of Cher’s closet from Clueless.)
My original dirndl was no longer available, but I found another one I loved—and it even happened to be on sale.
All I had to do was order a bigger size.
Which, for me, has never been quite as simple as it sounds.
All my life, I’ve been afraid of buying the bigger size.
I was a size 10 in jeans for years, until I wasn’t. Rather than admit I needed a bigger size, I searched for brands where a 10 still fit. Women’s sizing is wildly inconsistent, so if I looked hard enough, I could usually find one.
Eventually, I accepted the 12. Then some of those got too tight, and I started the same game all over again. Deny. Pretend. Search until I found the jeans that would let me keep my beloved number.
I finally just bought the bigger size.
And I was a thousand times more comfortable. I looked like me, not like a stuffed sausage.
And even as I write this, I’m having a moment of panic about telling the internet what size jeans I wear.
Which is ridiculous. You already know what I look like. I post pictures of myself all the time. The number printed inside my jeans has revealed precisely nothing new about my body.
But apparently some part of my brain still believes that number is information I should keep secret.
At some point, I have to ask: what exactly did I think I was accomplishing?
If I tried on six pairs of jeans until I found the magical brand where a 10 zipped, I was still exactly the same size. My body didn’t change because the tag inside my pants had a smaller number on it.
And yet, for most of my adult life, buying the bigger size felt like admitting something. Losing something. Failing at something I hadn’t consciously agreed was a competition.
Meanwhile, you know what nobody else can see? The fucking tag.
They can, however, see when my pants are cutting me in half.
Last weekend, I wore my new dirndl to the first Oktoberfest of the season at one of my favorite local breweries.
And I looked great.
No Spanx. No breath-holding. No divine intervention. It just zipped up. It was even a little loose in the waist, but I tied the apron tight and no one was the wiser.
This particular Oktoberfest has an annual dirndl and lederhosen competition. Obviously, I entered.
I’m devastated to report that I did not win. I didn’t even make the semifinals.
Which is complete bullshit, because I looked amazing.
Apparently, the judges were not evaluating contestants on personal growth.
Or boobs.
Frankly, I have questions about their criteria.
Love this article, Amanda. And I appreciate the Zero F*s approach to sizing.
And also, you were robbed.
Life is indeed too short for pants (or dirndls) that don’t fit. Loved this piece, and I would call for a recount!