Lord, let me tell you: Customizing a skinny-mini dress form to one's own relatively short-waisted, thick-front-thighed, round-stomached reality is rough. I spent the evening, with Scott, positioning and re-positioning custom-shaped foam pads aka evil, crappy dumplings of doom. What? It's my pet name.
I think I may need some therapy.
Apparently, I have body dysmorphia on the positive scale. In my mind I look as slender as a swan's neck. (Well, not any more.)
Don't get me wrong. I don't prize slimness above all else. I put a higher value on say, intelligence, charisma, sex appeal, style and, um, food (to name a few things). I know that being lean doesn't mean anything other than having a certain body shape. It doesn't bestow royal favours. It doesn't make you cuter, richer, hotter. It doesn't give you better orgasms.
And yet I'm having issues getting acquainted with the minutiae of my every curve, lump and shelf.
Here's the thing: You can't design for what you can't see. Or, to make this aphorism positive: You can only design accurately for what you can see. Blinkers off.
On an amusing note, Scott said: I can't believe you paid $800 bucks to undertake this misery. I would never have the nerve.
It's amazing what passes for bravery these days.