So today’s the day where I’m headed off to conference, complete with shirt that fits – yey. Before you all celebrate (I can hear sighs of relief and corks popping all around me) I’m here to tell you that in all honesty I think you could probably get the inhabitants of a small village into this shirt. Clearly when the order form went off with my size on, the shirt maker erred on the side of caution having never needed a pattern so big, and used enough fabric to single-handedly power the Spanish Armada.
I’ve got to be honest, the starched collar doesn’t help the overall effect and I certainly won’t be winning any prizes for style. Still, I’d rather look like a ship in full sail than spend the day bursting out of something which is straining at the seams. I tell you what, I’m going to keep this shirt and when I’m skinny I’ll do one of those photos of me posing in one corner of it. But anyway, that’s day wear sorted out. I will also be required to host a table at the gala dinner, and the dress code requires me to wear a cocktail dress. Oh dear.
Now I’m here to tell you that’s not going to happen any time soon. No no no no no. For the avoidance of doubt, no. I’m not one of these busty-but-hour-glass shaped ladies who can look glorious with curves spilling out of artfully draped chiffon even if the serving size is a little too large. I’ve never been known for my glorious assets in the cleavage department and to be honest, after all these years going up and down the size spectrum, nowadays my boobs resemble a pair of old sports socks with a tennis ball in each end. Trying to hoist them up to look alluring in any kind of chiffon ensemble has disaster written all over it.
I shall choose instead to wear my trusty black palazzo pants which, whilst not exactly on point in terms of the dress code look as dressy as it’s ever going to get when teamed with a nice top. A nice black floaty shapeless hides-everything-displays-nothing kind of top. No dimpled flesh on display, nothing to offend the eye, nothing to make me stand out. Nothing to make the asshole in my head whisper you can put lipstick on a pig but… or you can cover a turd in glitter but… as I’m getting ready. He really earned his stripes over the years you know? But I’m ready for him.
And as for the post-dinner dancing…I have to be honest and say my disco pants were put out to grass some time ago. I might have got a bit more mileage out of them had I been a skinny girl but as it stands, they’re currently buried somewhere in my skinny closet with nothing on their dance card. But activity is only suspended ’till I’m skinny, so they’re only semi-retired…even with my dodgy knee I still have moves like Jagger and can shake what my mama gave me with the best of ’em. Just for now, not in public 🙂
