I’m starting to notice a pattern. If you buy one thing, anything, out of a catalog you start to get them in your mailbox until they are coming out of your ears. Nowadays I keep getting the clothing ads for plus size women. Now that’s a blow to your ego if ever I saw one. And what I hate most is that they are selling pants for women sizes 18 to 28 and the girls in the photos look like they’ve never eaten an Oreo in their lives. Am I supposed to believe those sea breeze blue drawstring pants are going to look like that on me? Please.
If the great big cropped pants with the giant flowered long T-shirt isn’t enough to lure me in, today’s new catalog arrival actually included queen size sheets and mattress toppers “great for plus-sized people.” Now, what the hell does that mean?
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve all but given in to wearing elastic waist pants 24/7. I remember the days when they were only for sleeping. Sigh. If I start wearing those cloth shoes with the elastic across the top just shoot me. And I’m here to tell you there’s absolutely no good coming from a fat woman wearing shoes with straps. Just stay away from it. Mary Jane’s should be left for the toddlers where they belong.
I’ve taken to buying all manner of scarves in hopes that the jaunty way I wear them around my neck will detract from the sound of my thighs rubbing together. And you can never have too many bangles on your wrist – if you can force them on that is. There’s something to be said for a giant zebra-print handbag too. The art of distraction is right up there with dying your hair and wearing a magic bra. Magic. Now that would be nice.
I’ve daydreamed about being Samantha on Bewitched more times than I care to count. I once had a dream where I fileted the fat off my own thighs. There wasn’t much blood and I looked really good afterwards. I’ve also dreamed of lipo suction where the doctor uses a vacuum cleaner without the attachments so it’s just that round accordion hose thingy so he can remove a whole lot of fat at once. I know. I get carried away. And I dream in color.
I’m just sort of angry that I bought one lousy “big shirt” from a catalog and now I’ve been pegged as a fatty by the catalog world. What must the mailman think? Clearly he’s seen me waddle out to get the mail so I guess a fat lady catalog is no surprise. I just don’t appreciate people out in the great unknown validating my girth. Is nothing sacred? And all this coming just when I have to see all the thin yoga women wearing their little summer dresses on the Vineyard. If I could twitch my nose like Samantha I’d be right there on the mat with them, going out for a no-fat latte afterward.
I’m getting at that age, though, when I’m just about to buy a moo-moo with a nice bright print and say “screw it.” I’ve chewed my last stalk of celery and eaten my last bowl of kale soup. If I haven’t become a size 12 by now it probably isn’t going to happen. And if I can’t love the one I’m with then I’m worse off than my imaginary yoga partners. I’ll keep eating my extra fiber bread and my oats and skim milk anyway. By now, it all tastes pretty darn good. I wonder if they make a plus size yoga mat?
With my sunglasses on, I'm Jack Nicholson. Without them, I'm fat and 60. – Jack