Okay, so. I live in South Louisiana and Mardi Gras Season is fast approaching.
This means Parades and Bals and all manner of fun.
This means I have to buy several Fancy Schmancy Dresses.
Lemme tell you what that experience is like for me.
I am what is affectionately refereed to as “Curvy”. I call it “Chubby” but why split hairs??
I enter a department store and proceed to the Fancy Dress Section. I am awed and a little giddy at all the satin, sequins, and beading. I”M GONNA LOOK LIKE A BEAUTIFUL FAIRY PRINCESS!!
I select several dresses in the size I wear EVERY GAHTDAMNED DAY OF THE YEAR and proceed to the fitting room.
I try on dress #1. Doesn’t fit. Okay… Don’t lose hope. Maybe it’s just THIS designer. On to the next dress!! It’s so pretty!! I love this one!!
Try on dress #2. Doesn’t fit. What. The. Fuck!!?!? Did I grab the wrong size?? Nope. it’s the SIZE I WEAR EVERY GAHTDAMNED DAY OF THE YEAR. Huh..
Do you see where I’m going with this??
I continue this process blindly, until at last I’m left awash in a sea of sequined, beaded, satin and tulle wadded up on the chair and the floor of a dressing room, close to tears, with some of my back fat most likely caught in a zipper.
Then I come stomping out in a foul mood muttering “Fuck this. Fuck all that. Fuck this place. Fuck my life. Imma bedazzle a motherfucking SHEET and wear that bitch with a fancy belt. There!! I have something to wear!! Where’s the nearest bar??”.
Because nothing makes you feel like a fat assed heiffer more than having to size up (more sizes than I’m willing to say) for the “perfect” dress.
Guess what I’m doing tomorrow??
I’m gonna bring my flask.