I am going to a gala (what a word) tonight (the Urban Design Gala Awards, actually), and I don't know what to wear. It isn't as if I don't have plenty of outfits. I do. But whether or not they will shape themselves around my newly-reforming girth is another question. And whether I can find anything to go with my worn-out orthopaedic shoes (ach ach ach plantar fasciitis!) ... I'm not old enough for orthopaedic footwear! (A ridiculous assertion, I know, but cam' on, Jean-Marc! Thirty seven is too young for special shoes!)
I think the black dress with the orange flowers might look nice, except for that bit around my middle, which will protrude like a fun-house mirror Georgia O'Keefe print. And we all know the rule about prints. Besides, what if someone mistakes me for a moving canvass?
There's that red dress I have, but my cleavage -- I only have any when I'm fat -- will inevitably spill out like over-ripened honeydews. I have a necklace that matches the dress, but I am worried that jewellery will only attract attention to the wrong part of me and not to it.
I could wear pants, but you can see my cellulite through (all of...every pair of) them -- lardish rivulet outlines -- which is even worse than the camel toe effect I first learned of from watching The Weatherman. (I haven't found one successful pair of pants with my Roots' card, for example, although I am posthumously [post-modernly?] [post-somethingly...] relieved to learn of the camel toe anomaly.)
You can tell that I am anxious, too. Look at all of these parenthetical asides and the (dreaded) exclamation marks. Yikes!
Anyway, I don't think anyone is going to be there looking at me. I could probably walk in naked and, apart from being confused with a markedly bland building design, no one would notice. (No one has noticed me since my hair turned prematurely grey. A few [hundred] pounds isn't going to make any difference.)
Still, I don't want to draw any negative attention, either...which is hard enough to avoid when my head's hanging over the hors d'oeuvre table and I'm stuffing my pockets with crudities.
Serves me right for falling off the Weight Watcher's wagon. If I'd only behaved myself I could be trotting off this evening in my pink organdy and diamond tiara making googly Dame Edna eyes at everyone, dancing a lithe tarantella to the soft beat of the bongo drums (while still being ignored).
My one consolation? (And oh, would that I could credit my sources here:) "For a fat girl, I don't sweat much."
<:^)
