You know that moment when you realize the entire fashion industry is basically just making stuff up as they go along? Mine happened watching my buddy Jake lose his mind in a Nordstrom fitting room about three years ago. Jake’s one of those guys who actually looks like the dudes in fitness ads – broad shoulders, tapered waist, the whole package from years of rock climbing and CrossFit. Should be easy to dress, right?
Wrong.
We’d been hunting for dress shirts because he’d landed this corporate consulting gig and needed to look professional. I grabbed what seemed like the obvious choice – a shirt labeled “athletic fit” from a brand that literally sponsors half the athletes I follow on Instagram.
“Bro, this is ridiculous,” Jake said, emerging from the fitting room looking like a kid wearing his dad’s clothes. The shoulders hung off him like he was on a coat hanger, and there was enough fabric around his waist to hide a small child. “How is this athletic fit? What athlete are they fitting, a bowler?”
That shopping disaster sent me down this weird rabbit hole of trying to figure out what these fit labels actually mean. Spoiler alert: they don’t mean much of anything. It’s like every brand just throws darts at a wall of terminology and calls it a day.
After way too many hours researching this stuff (Emma keeps asking why I care so much about other people’s clothing problems, but honestly it bugs me when things don’t make sense), I’ve realized the whole system is completely broken. There’s literally zero standardization across the industry. One brand’s “slim” is another brand’s “regular,” and don’t even get me started on what passes for “athletic fit” these days.
I ended up doing this completely nerdy experiment where I measured the same size jacket from six different stores, all labeled “athletic fit.” The results were insane. The chest-to-waist measurements varied by like four inches between brands. Four inches! That’s the difference between looking sharp and looking like you’re wearing a tent.
The worst part is realizing how much money I’ve wasted over the years buying clothes based on these meaningless labels. Remember when I was going through my Supreme phase hardcore? I’d cop hoodies in “medium” from different drops and they’d fit completely differently. Same brand, same supposed size, but one would be perfect and another would be swimming on me. I just assumed it was inconsistent manufacturing, but now I think they were probably using different fit blocks and just not telling anyone.
My friend Carlos, who’s got this classic skinny-fat build (sorry Carlos, but you know it’s true), has the opposite problem. Dude’s arms and legs are pretty slim, but he carries weight around his middle like a lot of us do. Slim fits are too tight in the waist, regular fits look sloppy everywhere else, and athletic fits assume he’s got this V-shaped torso he definitely doesn’t have. He’s basically sized out of looking good in anything off the rack.
“I’ve given up on the labels entirely,” he told me last time we went shopping. “I just try stuff on and hope for the best.”
That’s probably smart, but it defeats the whole purpose of having these categories in the first place. They’re supposed to help us find clothes that fit without trying on every single thing in the store.
I talked to this technical designer named Marcus who’s worked for a bunch of major brands, and he basically confirmed what I suspected – there’s no governing body or standard for any of this terminology. Each company just makes up their own definitions based on who they think their customers are and what sounds good in marketing meetings.
“Ten years ago everyone wanted slim fits because that was trendy,” he explained. “Now athletic fit is the hot term, but most brands don’t actually know what that means in practice. They just need the label to stay competitive.”
It’s pure marketing bullshit, basically. Brands see what’s trending and slap those words on their existing patterns without necessarily changing anything meaningful about the actual fit.
The “athletic fit” thing is particularly annoying because it sounds so specific, but in reality it means completely different things to different companies. Some brands use it for what’s essentially a slim fit with slightly more room in the chest. Others use it for a regular fit with marginally more waist suppression. I’ve seen brands use “athletic fit” to describe cuts that are actually boxier than their regular fit, which makes absolutely no sense.
My buddy Derek, who’s a personal trainer and actually has the build these “athletic fits” supposedly target, has pretty much given up on buying shirts that fit properly off the rack. He sizes up to fit his shoulders and chest, then gets everything tailored at the waist. Costs him like an extra $30 per shirt, which is insane.
“It’s like they think athletic just means slightly less fat,” he said after another disappointing shopping trip. “They don’t actually design for guys who lift.”
The whole thing reminds me of sneaker sizing, honestly. Anyone who’s collected Jordans knows that different colorways of the same model can fit completely differently. But at least with sneakers, most of us figure out pretty quickly that we need to try stuff on or know the specific model before copping. With regular clothes, we’re still trusting these meaningless labels and getting burned.
After dealing with this frustration for years, I’ve developed some strategies that actually work. First, ignore the fit names completely and look at actual measurements when brands provide them. More companies are starting to list detailed sizing info online – chest-to-waist drops, shoulder widths, all that technical stuff. Those numbers tell you way more than whether something is labeled “modern fit” or whatever.
Second, once you find brands that consistently work for your body type, stick with them. Through trial and error, I’ve figured out that Uniqlo’s sizing works pretty well for my build, while J.Crew stuff tends to be too long in the torso. Jake discovered that Bonobos actually delivers on their athletic fit promises, while most mall brands don’t.
The size-up-and-tailor strategy Derek uses actually makes sense for anyone with fit issues in specific areas. Alterations that are easy and cheap (hemming, waist suppression, sleeve shortening) can fix a lot of problems, while stuff that’s hard to alter (shoulders, neck, overall proportions) you need to get right from the start.
I’ve also started paying attention to these newer direct-to-consumer brands that are actually trying to solve fit problems instead of just using trendy terminology. Companies like Peter Manning for shorter guys, American Tall for taller dudes, and brands offering the same style in multiple actual fits rather than just changing the label.
The most promising trend I’ve noticed is brands starting to offer real transparency about measurements and fits. Instead of just saying “athletic fit” and hoping for the best, some companies are providing detailed information about what that actually means for their specific products. It’s like they finally realized that treating customers like we’re too dumb to understand basic measurements wasn’t working.
But until the industry gets its act together (which, let’s be real, probably isn’t happening anytime soon), we’re stuck navigating this confusing mess ourselves. The key is remembering that when clothes don’t fit, it’s not a problem with your body – it’s a problem with the clothing industry using misleading labels and designing for a narrow range of body types.
Next time you’re standing in a fitting room wondering how a “slim fit” could be hanging off you like a garbage bag, or how an “athletic fit” seems designed for someone with the proportions of a refrigerator, just remember you’re not crazy. The system is broken by design, not by accident.
But once you understand that these labels are basically meaningless marketing terms, you can approach shopping more strategically. Focus on measurements over marketing, find brands that work for your specific build, and don’t be afraid to get stuff altered when it makes sense.
It’s more work than it should be, but at least you’ll end up with clothes that actually fit instead of a closet full of expensive mistakes labeled with meaningless terminology. Trust me, I’ve got enough of those already.
Keith’s a Portland designer with a soft spot for sneakers and a growing allergy to hype. He writes about streetwear’s creative side, its excesses, and learning to build real personal style beyond the latest drops.
