I’m a curvy kinda gal. I’ve got big boobs, an ample bum, and a few wobbly bits in between (which I totally blame my son for). Sure, I would probably look sexier with a bit less junk in my trunk (yes, yes, back to the gym I go), but all things considered, I’m doing okay. (And this is how I’d like to think I look – just like Jessica Rabbit … in my dreams!)
I won’t be strutting the catwalks of Paris next to Kate Moss anytime soon, but I am also in no danger of being shipped off to Camp Biggest Loser. And I’m pretty much in proportion. When they were handing out boobs and butt I got an equal share of both. Why thank you! I guess I’m what you would call ‘comfy’.
So, yesterday I took my comfy self to my local Westfield to buy a dress to wear to a funeral. If you’ve read our book (or have been following our blogs for a while) you may be getting a sense of déjà vu right about now, as I have banged on before about my quest for a dress that “covers my fat knees”. Well, I was certainly on the hunt for a conservative frock, but seriously, it wasn’t the length that was the problem. It was everything bloody else. Talk about a tight squeeze!
I managed to find a few frocks, 11 in fact, that were long enough to cover my knees (and my girly bits, ’cause you shouldn’t have to get a Brazilian to go with your new frock, it’s just wrong). I was feeling pretty good about my selection and I was stoked about the fact that half of them were on sale. How I love a bargain! The stars were aligning.
It was all hunky dory until I entered the fitting rooms. Stupid fitting rooms with their stupid mirrors and stupid flourescent lights. (Side note: Myer can you please do something about that evil lighting? It must be costing you millions in lost sales and you’re scarring hundreds of innocent shoppers like me every day. I’ll be sending you an invoice for my gym membership and counselling sessions.)
Not one dress fitted me. Not farking one. Not even a little bit. Now, let me be clear about something – I wasn’t trying on size 8s. I may be an emotional mess at times but I’m not completely delusional. I had in my possession a gaggle of 12s and a couple of 14s (that in my mind were going to be completely too big, of course). Our designers are all over the shop when it comes to sizing it seems – I have everything from an 8 to a 16 in my wardrobe and that’s just insane!
It wasn’t that they were all just too small (although Karen Millen you aint doing us any favours with your tiny sizing), they were just, well, not fitting. One was tight across my rump and loose across my boobs (and that never happens – the loose boobs bit). One was too short (clearly a poor hem length calculation on first inspection). Okay, so a couple were simply too small. One was too big across the rump and too tight across the boobs. One cut off the circulation in my arms … and the list goes on.
Honestly, it didn’t do my self-esteem any good. I felt like a hippo trying to fit into something in a size XXS from the sale rack at Supre, just like this pretty little princess below. (For the record, I wasn’t in Supre.) There’s nothing quite like trying on 11 dresses that don’t fit to make you feel sexy and alive! Not.
Clearly it’s time I give up on the dress fantasy. I should listen to the universe. It’s screaming, “Yo tubby, dresses clearly aren’t for you … time to give up your fantasy of ever fitting into one again!”
Yes I had a little tantrum. I cursed myself for being so freaking massive. Next time I’ll head straight to Big Girls Don’t Cry (an imaginary shop for ladies like me) and grab myself a moo moo.
And then it hit me; the reason why I was out shopping for a dress. Today, a dear friend will farewell to her beautiful mother. A woman who was so full of energy and vitality whose life was cut short due to an aggressive and rare form of cancer. I hate cancer.
Suddenly my “fat issues” paled into insignificance. I am sure my friend would happily put on 20 kilos and five dress sizes just to see her mum’s beaming smile one more time.
So, I will wear something from my wardrobe today and that’s a-okay. I will go to the service, I will support my friend and I will be bloody grateful. Grateful that I still have both my mums and dads (yes, I have two of each). Who cares about stupid dresses? Not me. People are what matter.
Rest in peace, Judy.