So as I have mentioned in the past, I do not sport the slender physique of a starving Somalian or a high-fashion model. Throughout the years, I have become increasingly comfortable with my non-twiggy self, since what I possess seems to be a magnet for Man Hands. Of course, a good twenty pounds of this reason reside in my colossal Boulder Holder, which results in a good amount of non-classy cleavage that I would be lost without. However, there is always one place where my muscled and french-fry fed bod always gets on my nerves.
The Dressing Room.
I ventured to the mall last week to procure a dress for my Rockstar’s niece’s wedding. (Yes, the fact that he has a neice old enough to marry is not lost on me.) I was thrilled to find myself once again amonst friends, (I mean the racks of clothes) and greeted each with a warm smile. It took me less time than it would take you to sing Happy Birthday twice to load my arms down with a pile of overly-dressy and bejeweled frocks (including a clearanced prom dress) and I made my way to the dreaded Room.
Let us just say, after becoming stuck in a dress with my arms over my head and my bosoms the obstacle to my freedom, I will only be trying on dresses with elastic surrounding the boobs. (I would have called for an attendant, but I was much too embarrassed.)
I tried on at least twenty dresses of all shapes and sizes, and felt exactly like Prince Charming searching endlessly for Cinderella’s foot. This one was too tight; this one was too loose; this one showed too much cleavage; this one showed to much back fat, (of which I don’t have alot of, but in certain dresses, it seems like I have backboobs). The only thing I can definitely get away with is going a little bit short on the skirt if need be, because I’ve been told I have baby-like skin, and they are well-muscled from hours of heel usage. In the end, I left the mall feeling depressed and corpulant. The only thing that made my sulking better was the fact that I picked up a pair of bronzey sequined pumps for only $8. (Go me!)
My friend Delightfulness was with me during my decent into self-loathing. She assured me that I am beautiful (easy for her to say- she was shopping at the other end of the dress rack on the skinny side- we needed megaphones to communicate our findings.) and that every day I must look at a different body part and tell myself what it was I liked about it. I began with my toes, and how I like that they are not long and creepy like so many peoples’ are. I find this excercise helpful except for one major thing- I can tell myself how perfect my boobies are (many people have done so) and how nice my skin is, and how non-flabby my butt is, but in the end, I’m still only skinnier than 3/4 of the McDonald’s devotees. And that does NOT make me look good in a dress.
P.S. I ended up finding a fabulous one-piece pantset that perfectly displayed the proper amount of cleavage to remain tasteful and still draw attention away from the eyesores.
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 