It always strikes me as vaguely funny when there are those parts in books where the person who wears ill-fitting clothes takes them off or wears something more fitting/tailored and suddenly the story waxes poetic on the glory of their body. I vote for super big comfy soft loose stuff, though. Honestly if a shirt never touched my armpits again in my entire life, I’d die happy. Also I like the idea of draping my various lumps in mystery. I feel like the collective literary world is missing out on a grand opportunity. Can we please glorify draping our lumps in mystery?