TOP TIPS FOR DIFFERENT SHAPES
A self-confessed dating disaster, dismissed as a ‘robot’ by men, writer HOLLY SMALE, 42, believed she must be ‘broken’. Then a late autism diagnosis helped her make sense of her romantic struggles
FOR A LARGE BUST
Wide set straps are good and underwiring is your friend. A good chest band and flattering neckline is important but be wary of buying a style that looks too like a bra. Sporty styles are flattering, especially minimal shelf styles.
FOR A SMALL BUST
Halter-neck tops accentuate the bust, as can triangle tops. Ruffles and ruching are great to add volume as are lightly padded and underwired styles. Avoid bandeau styles as they just flatten what you have. Asymmetrical one-shouldered styles and wrap-over necklines are flattering. Be sure that padding isn’t too visible, especially when wet.
FOR LARGER HIPS OR BUM
Ruffles and patterns worn on the top can draw the eye away from the hips. High cut legs are contemporary and good on curvy shapes. Criss-cross necklines are also a good diversion. Stay-put silicone gumming will ensure that bottoms stay in place.
FOR TUMMY ISSUES
Stretch panels with compression are good – it’s the same technology used in shapewear. Coloured tops paired with darker solid bottoms can conceal a wobbly tum. Ditto for draped, gathered or shirred panels.
Good posture can minimise a tummy.
FOR BOYISH SHAPES
To create the illusion of curves where there are none, cut outs can add emphasis as can halter necks. Prints, especially busy or larger ones, can make a straight-up/straight-down figure appear curvier.
FOR HOURGLASS SHAPES
Retro styles with higher waistlines highlight smaller waists and flatter curves. Vertical plunging necklines bring the eye down rather than to wider areas.
Love has always fascinated me. Like most of us, I have been steeped in the concept of romantic love from an early age: absorbing songs, films, magazine articles and classic romance novels. Love is everywhere. The pursuit of it, the celebration of it, the loss of it. As a lifelong fan, it is a topic I have studied with hope, enthusiasm and diligence.
But I haven’t ever felt it. Now in my 40s, I have never fallen in love, nor been in a real adult relationship that has lasted longer than a few months.
As an autistic woman who only received a diagnosis two years ago, for most of my life I believed I was ‘broken’. If falling in love is part of being human
‒ a rite of passage ‒ then I was failing.
In my 20s, it was endearing: I was a ‘free spirit’. In my 30s, my inability to couple up like a penguin began to raise eyebrows. Now, the embarrassing admission that
I can still count my ‘boyfriends’ on one hand is a giant red flag. Huge. Because – hello! ‒ I’m the problem. It’s me. It has to be, right?
Dating is difficult for me. A lot of early romantic connection is nuanced and unspoken, which means I’m innately terrible at it. I consistently misunderstand chat-up lines, struggle with eye contact, flinch at a casual hand on my shoulder and snort-laugh at my own jokes. If a man hits on me, I either freeze like a rabbit or don’t notice until 20 minutes after he’s gone. ‘I just wanted to say I think you’re very pretty,’ said one hot stranger at a bar. ‘Really?’ I replied politely. ‘That’s very kind and a bit random.’ Then I turned away and went back to my drink.
Online dating is no better, as virtual flirting requires subtlety I just don’t possess.
I’m awful at small talk and texting, don’t spot innuendo and truly cannot ‘read between the lines’. One date sent me a photo of his hot tub ‒ what I now understand was an implied invitation ‒ and I asked him what chemicals he used to keep it clean. He never spoke to me again.
I’m extremely direct, which can make me seem vaguely aggressive and even desperate (a dating death knell). I’m bad at banter, misread sarcasm, make inappropriate jokes and ask way too many questions (but rarely get asked them in return). I don’t quite know when a conversation is meant to end, so my dates normally have to tell me.
When I do manage to get through the first few dates, the pursuit of love becomes even more complicated. Because of the way I’m wired, it takes me a very long time to really connect with other humans, either emotionally or physically. I am permanently formal, polite and intense. While I’d have been a hit in a Jane Austen novel, modern dating simply doesn’t give me that time.
In a world where everyone’s chasing fireworks, my distance and slow pace is perceived as a ‘lack of spark’. I’ve been called ‘a robot’, ‘a chronic overthinker’, and, almost affectionately, ‘The Terminator’. One boyfriend once asked in bed, ‘Do you never just switch off?’ And the answer is no. I am constantly analysing, processing, monitoring and trying to understand relationship dynamics that feel like a foreign language.
So, I do what people in the neurodivergent communities call ‘masking’ – acting like a ‘normal’ person. I change the way I speak, move and behave so that I am less obviously ‘weird’. I count while making eye contact, and copy facial expressions. I sit as still as I can, avoid questions about my romantic history and resist monologuing.
And, to some extent, it works. But masking is, quite frankly, exhausting. And as I relax and the mask starts to drop, my new partner is usually disappointed. Loudly and consistently. Why can’t I just relax or go with the flow? Why do I need to know the precise details of a date five days ahead of time, and why won’t I ever stay at their house? Am I always this much ‘hard work’?
When we finally break up, I’m usually too exhausted and sad to try again for another couple of years. In the worst cases, because I struggle with social nuance, I haven’t seen red flags or lies until it’s too late. I end up in a lot of painful and sometimes dangerous situations which make me even more cautious the next time.
In truth, I have been darkly, deeply scared that I am simply incapable of either loving or of being loved.
And it’s incredibly difficult to make myself believe that next time it will be different.
But I do believe that I am worthy of being loved. Not in spite of being autistic, but because of who I am as a result: fiercely kind, smart, unwaveringly honest and a dab hand at making helpful lists. And I wonder, now, whether the issue with my search for love has been less in not understanding others, but in not being understood: less in not seeing others, but in not being seen.
The process of writing my first novel for adults, The Cassandra Complex, about an undiagnosed autistic woman trying to find her way in love, cemented that realisation for me. Since I received my diagnosis, something in me has started to change. The mystery of why I am the way I am has been solved and the shame around how I’m built has started to lift.
I no longer believe I’m broken.
Without a partner to distract me over the past two decades, I have built a life full of joy with close family and friends and a dream writing career with plenty of dorky special interests: a life that makes me genuinely happy. And – with a kind of giddiness – I’ve slowly realised I am not just capable of love: I am already surrounded by it and filled with it. It’s just not the romantic kind quite yet, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. The comfort in knowing I already have a wonderful life without romantic love takes a lot of that pressure off.
I now date as an openly autistic woman, instead of hiding it (I kind of have to – it’s all over Google). Blame it on my love of patterns and repetition, but I will keep dating, and failing, and dating again.
I don’t want to stand on the sidelines, watching love as an outsider any longer. To dorkily quote Foreigner’s 1980s ballad, ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ ‒ to know how it feels, to connect, to find true intimacy, to both see and be seen. And, if I am slow with my emotions, in future I will simply ask for the time I need. I will be myself. I will not fall in love. I will step into it, deliberately, when I’m ready. And when I finally do, it will be all the more magical for waiting.
I’M AWFUL AT SMALL TALK AND DON’T SPOT INNUENDO