I don’t know about others, but if there ever was 4 little words that worried me it’s: “Have you lost weight?”
Oh sure, they’re usually meant as a compliment, but it always gives me pause to ponder “How big did I look before?”
Just quietly, I haven’t lost any weight for a long time now. Quite the opposite in fact. And I lay the blame squarely at the foot of the pharmaceutical companies with their so-called “minor” side effects. They obviously haven’t had to squeeze said minor effects into last season’s jeans (and thank God summer is still a way off- my swimsuit, and the world at large, is safe for now).
Now I know I’m not alone, the vast majority of women aren’t happy with the skin they’re in. Something like a whopping 95% of us would change something of our current body shape. And a large lot of ladies are so self-conscious they won’t even let their partner into the bathroom while they’re going about their business in there- let alone do anything amorous with the lights on (hell, who looks good under fluorescent lighting anyway?)!
One only has to consider the continual stream of advertising aimed at weight loss or exclusively female fitness centres, let alone the current fad of detox diets, to realize just how many insecure girls there are in the world. And how many companies are “trying to help” them with that.
I recently stumbled onto the show “How To Look Good Naked” whilst channel-surfing the hundred or so channels that pay TV promises (there was nothing decent on Crime & Investigation at the time). Some androgynous little fashionista by the name of Gok Wan pops up on ‘LifeStyle YOU’ and then proceeds to ambush some unsuspecting sheila with a nude photo shoot and a stroll down the catwalk (in their undies, thankfully). To be fair, he first takes her on a journey of self-discovery for the better part of the one hour timeslot, and peeks inside her closet and into her life before taking her shopping for the right style for her shape. From what I gather, the network foots the bill.
Now on one hand I wish that could happen to me. I know I wear the wrong clothes for my sort of silhouette, but damned if I have the money or the knowhow to replace my entire wardrobe on a whim! Besides, I like black. It’s the universal slimming colour, am I right?
Apparently not. According to this Gok fellow black is bad. So are tunics, maxi maxi dresses, and distressed denim (wish he’d told me that before I bought that last pair of pants).
And I know for a fact that if Gok, or Trinny or Susanna, or any of those fashion gurus were to turn up on my doorstep, I would hide behind the curtain and pretend I wasn’t home. Seriously, no one needs to see that kind of thing on prime time television or on cable. Especially if one is paying for the privilege (that would certainly qualify more for the crime rather than style channels, in my opinion)!
So I’ll stumble along with counting carbs and cholesterol, fixating on fats, and trying to swap in some preferred proteins instead; all the while hoping to get off the medication that has made my girth worse since the car accident.
See, though I know I don’t look too good naked at this particular point in time…I also know I’m not the only one.
And next time someone says “Have you lost weight?” I’ll smile and say, “Why yes I have!” and hope there’s still enough of a butt not to reveal the fingers crossed behind my behind.
Jx
©2010
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Friday, July 23, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Eye Spy
I got new glasses yesterday.
Not being one to waste money, I made sure that I used up all my entitlements from our private health insurance and updated my specs before the calendar year expired.
Seems I wasn’t alone in my thinking either, as the local optometrists were doing a roaring trade in eye exams and lens manufacturing come December 31.
Armed with horror stories about how everything falls apart once one hits 40 (this year, ye gods), and since there’s a fairly hefty family history of vision troubles and glaucoma, I’m keeping a close eye, so to speak, on my sight. Besides, when one has to wear glasses for whatever reason, it’s good to make sure they match the rest of your wardrobe. My sister has needed to wear them since the age of 3, so she has a massive collection of specs in every shade and size. She could just about open her own store (eBay, anyone?)!
Now, whoever thought shoes and handbags were the only accessories that changed with the season should take a moment to recall some of the styles that have made a spectacle of themselves over the years… like the cat-eye specs of the 50s and 60s, police or porn star sunnies of the 70s (think officer Poncherello from ‘CHiPs’), granny glasses of the 80s (when everything was big), and Ray-Bans of the 90s. Just like the rest of your outfit, it’s funny how these things come back into style; if you need it simply whack in an updated prescription lens and you’re back in fashion just like that! (Though, personally speaking, I cannot think of a time or place where it’s ever appropriate to adorn one’s eyes with coke-bottle lenses. Oh John Lennon, you have a lot to answer for…)
Anyway, the current thinking for eye glasses at least is rectangular frames (mind you, those big round blowfly-eyes for sunnies are also being seen this season). I wonder how many of us sporting the new style would think twice if we knew they were first seen on the faces of the unfashionable way back in the 1800s? And only on those who had given up hope of making it through a social occasion without falling flat on their faces. Nooooo, once upon a time, you didn’t dare wear spectacles unless you were ready to publicly embrace old age, or otherwise totally incompetent without them. Even then there was no choice of styles like there is these days; whatever the salesman had on hand, went on your face.
Well I lined up for my annual eye exam with some trepidation. I don’t know about you, but when it comes to eyesight or hearing tests, I’m always worried that I’ll ‘fail’ … not see the correct letter or hear that little ‘ping’ which means that particular sense is dwindling, and it’s all downhill from here. It’s also rather weird when they add anaesthetic or dilating drops to the equation and one gets the sense of not being totally connected to and therefore in control of the little orbs in your eye-socket. (Mind you, it’s a good excuse to do a little shopping afterwards, since the recommendation is not to drive until the effects wear off.)
I was especially worried this time ‘round when the optometrist said there was a discrepancy in the pressure of my eyes, and I needed to attend another appointment for a more intense Visual Field Test. Thoughts of glaucoma and loss of peripheral vision crossed my mind and I gladly accepted a time just a few days away, as opposed to after the holiday season. When it comes to vision, you don’t want just your hindsight to be 20/20.
So there I was, perched on a tiny little stool obviously designed for people without the hereditary butt size the women of our family share, leaning forward with my chin and forehead resting on a decidedly uncomfortable plastic bar, wearing an eye patch that Long John Silver would be proud of. The room is darkened and soundproofed to avoid distractions, and you’re not even allowed to speak during the test, as the very act of chatting makes your eyeballs move around and can affect the result. Who knew?
For those who’ve never had the pleasure: you have to stare straight ahead at the centre of this concave apparatus (a bit like your rooftop satellite dish), while at irregular intervals a little light randomly appears around the dish with varying intensity in its brightness; the idea is you press a buzzer held in your hand whenever you see the light and the computer takes note. Well, after a while of staring wide-eyed with an overwhelming fear of blinking lest you miss a light spot and fail the test, your uncovered eye starts to water, you end up imagining things and merrily start pressing on the buzzer in the notion that you’ve got to be right at least some of the time.
After about 20 minutes (and a switch of the eye patch) the technician tallies up your results (i.e. how many times you get a correct ‘hit’ on the target) and compares them to data from other patients of your age.
I was so happy when he told me I was smack-bang in the normal range of my peers, I could’ve kissed the guy. Except my eyesight is not so poor I could ignore that he didn’t appeal to my senses. So I escaped with only needing a new pair in the same prescription as before, and got to pick from some funky new frames in my favourite colours.
Trying them on, I was certain I’d spent my health fund dollars well. Until I stepped outside the store and in the process of getting used to the new glasses, I found I was walking a little wonkily like I’d just hopped off a boat or something, and had to physically prevent myself tapping a foot in front of me before deciding it was a safe place to go- and making a real spectacle of myself in the process.
I knew I had well and truly overstepped the mark when I commented to my Beloved that the new prescription sunnies I’d chosen (complete with polarized lenses) made everything look like it was in 3D.
(I’ll let you think about it for a minute… cue the elevator muzak… )
Yes, though my eyes may be ok for my age, I’m really starting to wonder about my mind…
Jx
©2010
For more information about Glaucoma, check out the Glaucoma Research Foundation, or talk to your local optometrist.
Not being one to waste money, I made sure that I used up all my entitlements from our private health insurance and updated my specs before the calendar year expired.
Seems I wasn’t alone in my thinking either, as the local optometrists were doing a roaring trade in eye exams and lens manufacturing come December 31.
Armed with horror stories about how everything falls apart once one hits 40 (this year, ye gods), and since there’s a fairly hefty family history of vision troubles and glaucoma, I’m keeping a close eye, so to speak, on my sight. Besides, when one has to wear glasses for whatever reason, it’s good to make sure they match the rest of your wardrobe. My sister has needed to wear them since the age of 3, so she has a massive collection of specs in every shade and size. She could just about open her own store (eBay, anyone?)!
Now, whoever thought shoes and handbags were the only accessories that changed with the season should take a moment to recall some of the styles that have made a spectacle of themselves over the years… like the cat-eye specs of the 50s and 60s, police or porn star sunnies of the 70s (think officer Poncherello from ‘CHiPs’), granny glasses of the 80s (when everything was big), and Ray-Bans of the 90s. Just like the rest of your outfit, it’s funny how these things come back into style; if you need it simply whack in an updated prescription lens and you’re back in fashion just like that! (Though, personally speaking, I cannot think of a time or place where it’s ever appropriate to adorn one’s eyes with coke-bottle lenses. Oh John Lennon, you have a lot to answer for…)
Anyway, the current thinking for eye glasses at least is rectangular frames (mind you, those big round blowfly-eyes for sunnies are also being seen this season). I wonder how many of us sporting the new style would think twice if we knew they were first seen on the faces of the unfashionable way back in the 1800s? And only on those who had given up hope of making it through a social occasion without falling flat on their faces. Nooooo, once upon a time, you didn’t dare wear spectacles unless you were ready to publicly embrace old age, or otherwise totally incompetent without them. Even then there was no choice of styles like there is these days; whatever the salesman had on hand, went on your face.
Well I lined up for my annual eye exam with some trepidation. I don’t know about you, but when it comes to eyesight or hearing tests, I’m always worried that I’ll ‘fail’ … not see the correct letter or hear that little ‘ping’ which means that particular sense is dwindling, and it’s all downhill from here. It’s also rather weird when they add anaesthetic or dilating drops to the equation and one gets the sense of not being totally connected to and therefore in control of the little orbs in your eye-socket. (Mind you, it’s a good excuse to do a little shopping afterwards, since the recommendation is not to drive until the effects wear off.)
I was especially worried this time ‘round when the optometrist said there was a discrepancy in the pressure of my eyes, and I needed to attend another appointment for a more intense Visual Field Test. Thoughts of glaucoma and loss of peripheral vision crossed my mind and I gladly accepted a time just a few days away, as opposed to after the holiday season. When it comes to vision, you don’t want just your hindsight to be 20/20.
So there I was, perched on a tiny little stool obviously designed for people without the hereditary butt size the women of our family share, leaning forward with my chin and forehead resting on a decidedly uncomfortable plastic bar, wearing an eye patch that Long John Silver would be proud of. The room is darkened and soundproofed to avoid distractions, and you’re not even allowed to speak during the test, as the very act of chatting makes your eyeballs move around and can affect the result. Who knew?
For those who’ve never had the pleasure: you have to stare straight ahead at the centre of this concave apparatus (a bit like your rooftop satellite dish), while at irregular intervals a little light randomly appears around the dish with varying intensity in its brightness; the idea is you press a buzzer held in your hand whenever you see the light and the computer takes note. Well, after a while of staring wide-eyed with an overwhelming fear of blinking lest you miss a light spot and fail the test, your uncovered eye starts to water, you end up imagining things and merrily start pressing on the buzzer in the notion that you’ve got to be right at least some of the time.
After about 20 minutes (and a switch of the eye patch) the technician tallies up your results (i.e. how many times you get a correct ‘hit’ on the target) and compares them to data from other patients of your age.
I was so happy when he told me I was smack-bang in the normal range of my peers, I could’ve kissed the guy. Except my eyesight is not so poor I could ignore that he didn’t appeal to my senses. So I escaped with only needing a new pair in the same prescription as before, and got to pick from some funky new frames in my favourite colours.
Trying them on, I was certain I’d spent my health fund dollars well. Until I stepped outside the store and in the process of getting used to the new glasses, I found I was walking a little wonkily like I’d just hopped off a boat or something, and had to physically prevent myself tapping a foot in front of me before deciding it was a safe place to go- and making a real spectacle of myself in the process.
I knew I had well and truly overstepped the mark when I commented to my Beloved that the new prescription sunnies I’d chosen (complete with polarized lenses) made everything look like it was in 3D.
(I’ll let you think about it for a minute… cue the elevator muzak… )
Yes, though my eyes may be ok for my age, I’m really starting to wonder about my mind…
Jx
©2010
For more information about Glaucoma, check out the Glaucoma Research Foundation, or talk to your local optometrist.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
All White Now
There’s a running joke in the family: if you ever wanted to look like you had a tan, you simply stand next to me. Yes it's true, I could make even Frosty the Snowman take on a healthy glow. And you certainly don’t need any reminder about slipping on the sunnies when I’m around- the glare alone has been known to put dogs and small children into a hypnotic state. (Just ask my daughter’s teacher the day I helped out on an excursion to the lake one sunny day…)
So it was with some trepidation I recently read the weather forecast to see that not only had Spring sprung, but it was bringing advance notice of Summertime with it.
I don’t know about where you live, but here, as soon as there’s even a hint of the temperature hitting 20 degrees (celsius for those not using the same scale, which is roughly 70+ degrees fahrenheit), out come the shorts and sundresses; and by default, so do any body parts that otherwise go undercover in colder climes.
It’s a time of year I dread, because there comes a time when it’s so hot one has run out of excuses and must simply dare to bare. (Either that, or convert to one of those religions that requires complete coverage all year round, and I just don’t know how that’d go down with my mother.)
And so I face the annual dilemma of what not to wear.
My preference is still for longer skirts or those maxi-dresses, they’re cool, comfy, with good coverage. But take it from me, pick the wrong print and you’ll have little kids lining up behind you wondering when tickets go on sale for the circus.
As an alternative, three-quarter pants are also pretty safe, unless you’re somewhere around my height and instead of lengthening the body, they make you look like you’re auditioning for a role as one of the dwarves (I always maintained I could be all seven at the same time, provided their names were: Stumpy, Lumpy, Bumpy, Frumpy, Dumpy, Jumpy, and let’s not forget Grumpy)!
But I still have to ensure that I slather sunscreen on any flesh that may be exposed as a result, ‘cause with my skin tone I only have two shades– blinding white or lobster red. And after a few disastrous attempts at the home self-tan job (seriously, the bathroom vanity got a better tan than I did), I have resigned myself to having the same alabaster complexion as Nicole Kidman (only I don’t share the smooth forehead as she, for some reason).
At my previous place of employment I could always tell when Summer had begun, by the streaks of fake tan on the toilet seat. At least I hope it was fake tan.
Anyway, there we were at school the other morning, doing the drop-off routine with the kids, when we couldn’t help but notice the student-teacher sashay through the playground…followed by the eyes of not only all the mothers, but the fathers too. When she stopped alongside the class she had been assigned that day, the odds of the teacher up front of the assembly keeping the attention of those 6th grade boys were a helluva lot longer than the skirt this other one had chosen to wear.
I’m sure you can imagine the kind of comments that were being passed around the schoolyard; suffice to say that she didn’t get a glowing report card from a large number of onlookers.
So there I was, standing with the usual suspects as we observed the whole thing from the safety of the back row. And with utter glee akin to the kindergartners in the crowd, I noticed that whoever had helped that intern out had done a dodgy job in the fake-tan danger-zone leaving the front of her knees a peculiar shade of orange, and the backs a brilliant white, almost enough to rival what was poking out my trouser legs.
OK so small things amuse small minds, but I’ve gotta say those two little white patches gave us a mighty big laugh. And for once it wasn’t my legs causing the mirth. But with summer coming, I guess the last laugh will most likely be on me.
Jx
©2009
So it was with some trepidation I recently read the weather forecast to see that not only had Spring sprung, but it was bringing advance notice of Summertime with it.
I don’t know about where you live, but here, as soon as there’s even a hint of the temperature hitting 20 degrees (celsius for those not using the same scale, which is roughly 70+ degrees fahrenheit), out come the shorts and sundresses; and by default, so do any body parts that otherwise go undercover in colder climes.
It’s a time of year I dread, because there comes a time when it’s so hot one has run out of excuses and must simply dare to bare. (Either that, or convert to one of those religions that requires complete coverage all year round, and I just don’t know how that’d go down with my mother.)
And so I face the annual dilemma of what not to wear.
My preference is still for longer skirts or those maxi-dresses, they’re cool, comfy, with good coverage. But take it from me, pick the wrong print and you’ll have little kids lining up behind you wondering when tickets go on sale for the circus.
As an alternative, three-quarter pants are also pretty safe, unless you’re somewhere around my height and instead of lengthening the body, they make you look like you’re auditioning for a role as one of the dwarves (I always maintained I could be all seven at the same time, provided their names were: Stumpy, Lumpy, Bumpy, Frumpy, Dumpy, Jumpy, and let’s not forget Grumpy)!
But I still have to ensure that I slather sunscreen on any flesh that may be exposed as a result, ‘cause with my skin tone I only have two shades– blinding white or lobster red. And after a few disastrous attempts at the home self-tan job (seriously, the bathroom vanity got a better tan than I did), I have resigned myself to having the same alabaster complexion as Nicole Kidman (only I don’t share the smooth forehead as she, for some reason).
At my previous place of employment I could always tell when Summer had begun, by the streaks of fake tan on the toilet seat. At least I hope it was fake tan.
Anyway, there we were at school the other morning, doing the drop-off routine with the kids, when we couldn’t help but notice the student-teacher sashay through the playground…followed by the eyes of not only all the mothers, but the fathers too. When she stopped alongside the class she had been assigned that day, the odds of the teacher up front of the assembly keeping the attention of those 6th grade boys were a helluva lot longer than the skirt this other one had chosen to wear.
I’m sure you can imagine the kind of comments that were being passed around the schoolyard; suffice to say that she didn’t get a glowing report card from a large number of onlookers.
So there I was, standing with the usual suspects as we observed the whole thing from the safety of the back row. And with utter glee akin to the kindergartners in the crowd, I noticed that whoever had helped that intern out had done a dodgy job in the fake-tan danger-zone leaving the front of her knees a peculiar shade of orange, and the backs a brilliant white, almost enough to rival what was poking out my trouser legs.
OK so small things amuse small minds, but I’ve gotta say those two little white patches gave us a mighty big laugh. And for once it wasn’t my legs causing the mirth. But with summer coming, I guess the last laugh will most likely be on me.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Boobie Trapped
(NOTE: The conference has been and gone, but I'm posting this from another blog of mine, due to requests to repeat in a public arena. I have no shame, apparently.)
I’ve got to go to Melbourne next week for a conference.
Now, I haven’t been in any kind of corporate clothing for years, and that was always part of the appeal of moving from the Copy and Sales department to being on-air in radio: no one really gets to see what you look like. You could be slopping into the studio in your slippers, but sound like a million dollars and that’s the way the listeners picture you (for some reason people always think I'm blonde, too…not sure how to take that, hmmmm)!
Anyway, thanks to a quirk of Mother Nature when I became a mother, most of my “suit” stuff no longer fits me. Aside from the little jelly belly that haunts a lot of us ladies even after we get rid of ‘the bump’, I‘m a far cry from the President of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee that I used to be at school, that’s for sure. Oh yes, I couldn’t be one of those early developers and get the goods when we were trying to attract the boys in high school, could I. Oh no, I had to be a late bloomer didn’t I?
And bloom I did.
My girls darn near require their own postcode these days!
Within minutes it seemed of finally falling pregnant with my firstborn, I went from a respectable and sorely missed C (for Cute/Compact) cup, to DD (a Desirable Double), to an F (Far out), through G (Good God), up to H (Holy Hell), and into a nappy bra once the milk kicked in. Do you know what I mean by that? Two cloth nappies folded into triangles then pinned together as a halter top in an effort to contain the massive milk-making machines. (And you will never see those photos, I can assure you.)
Not only did I set a new record in the maternity wing at our local hospital, I broke it with my next bub!
Through the miracle of weight loss one gets from breastfeeding, I soon shrunk back to a tidy little size 10-12 (ok, I’ll be honest, so it’s more like 12-14 these days). Except for the girls- still an F cup. Friends and family who said that you lose your boobs when you stop feeding, lied to me big time.
How hard is it, I ask, to find a decent dress or matching pieces to fit that sort of figure, that’s not too tight up top or too baggy at bottom?? Very. Bloody. Hard.
After a few years of looking longingly at my lovely clothes in my cupboard, I bit the bullet and gave them all away. Which left me with a fairly unexciting selection of vee neck tees (to draw the eyes upwards and away from the monster cleavage, dontcha know), oversized baseball tops (an all-out camouflage campaign), and just a couple of nice pairs of pants and skirts (bor-ing).
So when my boss says we’re off to Melbourne for a conference, it occurred to me that I needed to seriously rethink and rework my wardrobe. (Sheesh, it’s the “Style Capital of Australia”, for crying out loud! Could we not have held it somewhere called ‘Boganville’ instead?)
I take one of my BFFs with me to help me shop.
Here we pause and I make a comment about the true nature of our friendship, as a couple of days ago I again tried on the two dresses I bought with her approval. One has a nice vee front…….that darn near dips to my belly button thank you very much! The other has a 3 inch wide belt that cinches just below the boosies, and causes me to have flashbacks to the aforementioned nappy bra. *shudder*
Like anyone would pay attention to what I was teaching in the Master Class if I wore that one!!!
What was I thinking picking these dresses?
What was she thinking to let me get them??
So it’s back to the drawing board with just 2 days now to locate the perfect corporate outfit on an itty bitty budget (yes, pity my monetary assets aren't as large as my physical assets). And now I am hyperconscious of my curvaceous booty. To the point where I am positive that if the local TV news crew were out filming generic images of the crowds for a story on say, obesity, getting the sort of shots where they zoom in on the fat butts or rounded tums or generous chests going by…well, that little red light would so be blinking in my direction for sure.
I mean, when I returned the affronting belted number, the nice sales lady insisted I try on another style- also with a belt! Needless to say, even she couldn’t contain her shock, and was ever-so-helpful in refunding my money, ever-so-quickly too.
So now, with about 48 hours remaining, it’s come down to this: if I fail in my mission to camo the mammo’s, I can only hope that my Workshop is sufficiently brilliant to keep the group’s attention on the topic and not on my top.
On the other hand, if my Power Point Presentation is pathetic, at least there’ll be two points that participants will remember!
Jx
©2009
I’ve got to go to Melbourne next week for a conference.
Now, I haven’t been in any kind of corporate clothing for years, and that was always part of the appeal of moving from the Copy and Sales department to being on-air in radio: no one really gets to see what you look like. You could be slopping into the studio in your slippers, but sound like a million dollars and that’s the way the listeners picture you (for some reason people always think I'm blonde, too…not sure how to take that, hmmmm)!
Anyway, thanks to a quirk of Mother Nature when I became a mother, most of my “suit” stuff no longer fits me. Aside from the little jelly belly that haunts a lot of us ladies even after we get rid of ‘the bump’, I‘m a far cry from the President of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee that I used to be at school, that’s for sure. Oh yes, I couldn’t be one of those early developers and get the goods when we were trying to attract the boys in high school, could I. Oh no, I had to be a late bloomer didn’t I?
And bloom I did.
My girls darn near require their own postcode these days!
Within minutes it seemed of finally falling pregnant with my firstborn, I went from a respectable and sorely missed C (for Cute/Compact) cup, to DD (a Desirable Double), to an F (Far out), through G (Good God), up to H (Holy Hell), and into a nappy bra once the milk kicked in. Do you know what I mean by that? Two cloth nappies folded into triangles then pinned together as a halter top in an effort to contain the massive milk-making machines. (And you will never see those photos, I can assure you.)
Not only did I set a new record in the maternity wing at our local hospital, I broke it with my next bub!
Through the miracle of weight loss one gets from breastfeeding, I soon shrunk back to a tidy little size 10-12 (ok, I’ll be honest, so it’s more like 12-14 these days). Except for the girls- still an F cup. Friends and family who said that you lose your boobs when you stop feeding, lied to me big time.
How hard is it, I ask, to find a decent dress or matching pieces to fit that sort of figure, that’s not too tight up top or too baggy at bottom?? Very. Bloody. Hard.
After a few years of looking longingly at my lovely clothes in my cupboard, I bit the bullet and gave them all away. Which left me with a fairly unexciting selection of vee neck tees (to draw the eyes upwards and away from the monster cleavage, dontcha know), oversized baseball tops (an all-out camouflage campaign), and just a couple of nice pairs of pants and skirts (bor-ing).
So when my boss says we’re off to Melbourne for a conference, it occurred to me that I needed to seriously rethink and rework my wardrobe. (Sheesh, it’s the “Style Capital of Australia”, for crying out loud! Could we not have held it somewhere called ‘Boganville’ instead?)
I take one of my BFFs with me to help me shop.
Here we pause and I make a comment about the true nature of our friendship, as a couple of days ago I again tried on the two dresses I bought with her approval. One has a nice vee front…….that darn near dips to my belly button thank you very much! The other has a 3 inch wide belt that cinches just below the boosies, and causes me to have flashbacks to the aforementioned nappy bra. *shudder*
Like anyone would pay attention to what I was teaching in the Master Class if I wore that one!!!
What was I thinking picking these dresses?
What was she thinking to let me get them??
So it’s back to the drawing board with just 2 days now to locate the perfect corporate outfit on an itty bitty budget (yes, pity my monetary assets aren't as large as my physical assets). And now I am hyperconscious of my curvaceous booty. To the point where I am positive that if the local TV news crew were out filming generic images of the crowds for a story on say, obesity, getting the sort of shots where they zoom in on the fat butts or rounded tums or generous chests going by…well, that little red light would so be blinking in my direction for sure.
I mean, when I returned the affronting belted number, the nice sales lady insisted I try on another style- also with a belt! Needless to say, even she couldn’t contain her shock, and was ever-so-helpful in refunding my money, ever-so-quickly too.
So now, with about 48 hours remaining, it’s come down to this: if I fail in my mission to camo the mammo’s, I can only hope that my Workshop is sufficiently brilliant to keep the group’s attention on the topic and not on my top.
On the other hand, if my Power Point Presentation is pathetic, at least there’ll be two points that participants will remember!
Jx
©2009
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