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Sparkle (0)
Dearest Fatty,
Today you went clothes shopping. Normally you wouldn't, I know this because I always come with you and understand what a trial this can be.
In normal conditions you would have just gone straight to the jogging pants isle and grabbed the biggest size but this time you had to be brave and go to the dress isle.
A wedding should be a happy occasion and you ARE so very happy for the bride and groom, but face it, you are terrified of having to buy a dress, horrified about the limited choices available to you and mortified of how you know you will look in the wedding photos.
You found a dress.
A good solid wedding guest dress, spring like with flowers on it.
You turned it this way and that and that fact it was on sale made you find the bravery you need to go and try it on.
Now you are as paranoid as Mulder Fox on weed. I can see your blushing cheeks and feel your sweaty palms as you imagine the changing room girl eyeing up first the dress and then you and judging the pair of you...and finding you wanting.
The mirrors are full length.
You have no full length mirrors at home, instead you dress with the help of a mirror the size of an A4 piece of paper, that way you can only see one bit at a time...its a system that works for you.
You undress and can't help but see your whole body in one go.
Poor Fatty. It must feel like a hermit who hasn't seen his own face for 20 years, on account of living in the mountains in a cave, getting cleaned up and having a shave. Where DID my young face go?
And this is how you feel.
You don't KNOW this person. This is not the person who used to ride racehorses and wear skirts so short that cars would slow down and boys would lean out of the windows to whistle. This is not the body you shyly showed your first lover. This is not a body you know how to work. Its lack of agility still surprises you, you move a hand to you stomach and are always, ALWAYS surprised when your hand finds flesh where none should be for another few inches.
I know how hard it was to pull that dress on Fatty.
Not physically, although it was a little snug, but at that halfway point where you knew what it would look like and had no choice but to see it through.
You know how it looked.
There is no need for description.
You dress, and your clothes, that seemed alright when you dressed at home this morning, now make you feel huge.
I saw you scuttle out of the changing room and slip the dress and hanger back onto the rail. Saw you find your husband and lie to him when he asked if it fit.
You will find a dress Dearest Fatty.
And I promise you will find that lost body as well.
I Love you.
Is it your flab or your brain you need to fight? Answers on a postcard please.
