Ladies and Gentlemen:
The expanding rear end. What am I to do? I lament – actually its PMT. Post Men Trauma. – Not Weally. But seriously, I know this is another posting about this subject but I just gotta tell you this, so hold tight and read on.
Peeps, I tell you I am distraught – What again? I hear some of you mumble tiredly. Yes, I am distraught again and I will continue to be distraught until someone comes to my rescue to say “Esther Babes, Shud-dup, Shut the Kennel up.” But until someone brave enough is going to confront me with that, then I will continue to rant and rave about my ever expanding posterior, which incidentally is moving at a rather fast and horizontal pace.
I received an invite to a wedding about three weeks ago. Yes, I knew it was happening last Saturday, 2nd June, and yes, maybe I should’ve taken a peep in my wardrobe just to make sure I had several options to hand. Even if I had opened my wardrobe to dust off the cobwebs, I would’ve noticed that my attire had somehow diminished to a few rusty looking skirts, a couple of jackets and a mish-mash and odd assortment of bags, tights, socks and knickers that had a rather greyish, dead look to them. Hmmmmmm
Also, considering the weather had been fluctuating quite a lot last week, enticing me between putting back on the thermal vest and long johns to wearing a bikini, I really should’ve checked my garms a little earlier in the day for the hidden treasures in my wardrobe. But as always, being busy attending courses, building a business and looking after two ever growing and always starving boys, I failed to listen to my inner self telling me from two weeks ago to “go see which outfit you can find that you can still fit in.” Envy peeps, absolute envy and from my inner self as well. Tut, tut, tut.
Maybe I had put off trying on my new garms, because in reality, I knew that many had already failed to fit me well when I last visited my wardrobe in January. My shape has certainly changed somewhat and some of my clothes now look rather, tired and sheepish. Yes, I know 5 months is a long time not to try something on, but in my mind, within the insanity of me thinking that my ever expanding backside was still a minute, incy wincy, cutey, wooty size 10, I waited until Thursday night at some mad hour to finally try on my garb for Saturday.
This was a lovely off white trouser suit which I had worn only once. It was still nicely packed up in its plastic covering, - that was me being all protective about this sexy little number. So there I was at some mad hour of the night, fitting on the jacket first. Hmmmm, nice colour. Suits you girl. The waist of the jacket was nicely tapered in, which accentuated my ever expanding J’Lo curves. Then I tried, attempted, endeavoured, cracked a whip at, stabbed a chance at trying to get the trousers over my hips so that I c…c….could zip them up at the side. If I had inhaled any more than I did then, I would’ve swallowed my windpipe.
Oh deary me, my ego screamed, “got a bit of a bottom more that we expected have we?” I tried to ignore the panic that was rising up within me, my eyes were turning red and bulbous. Must inhale more, Must inhale more, Must suck in gut, lower, middle gut, any gut and squeeze in obliques and squeeze in butt cheeks……whilst another little voice whispered “try a girdle love, get yourself a girdle love or liposuction.”
I could’ve wept at that moment in time. As I raised my head to look in the mirror, beads of sweat poured down and over my eyebrows and I really wanted to weep. Actually I think it was the pain of trying to squeeze myself out of the trousers without ripping off my skin off that caused water to leak out of my eye. Yet somehow, I felt the need to go on, to become my own heroine and as Rhett Butler said to Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind “Frankly My Dear, I don't give a damn." How brave I felt, as I continued to struggle to disengage the trousers from my fuller bodied and figured self, without resorting to using the kitchen knife to just “cut de damn ting off.”
Friday was certainly out of the question to run around to find something suitable to adorn my now voluptuous body. Therefore on Saturday, with two hours to go before the wedding which was on the other side of London, I was to be found, dashing around Lewisham Town Centre, with a “don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, DO NOT GET INNA MY WAY” scowl on my face, because I had an agenda and time was indeed very, very limited.
I finally found myself a top which I matched up with the one pair of white linen trousers I had found laying somewhere at the back of my wardrobe and I donned the jacket to the offending pair of trousers, which refused to fit me, and ended up looking rather presentable if I must say so.
This little escapade has now taught me a few things:
v Firstly, have more than one outfit in ones wardrobe for special events – have options
v Never assume that madam sized zero is Yahoooooooooooo – just look inna de mirror and face de facts
v Never leave things to the last minute
v Hit the gym a little harder and leave the chocolate biscuits alone
But you know what I am actually beginning to enjoy the J’Lo looking butt. It’s kind of ok, and once again like old Rhet said to Scarlett “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn” so she says as she heads to the gym twice a day now and has resorted to drinking water out of a sealed lid with a straw. Even water has calories you know!!!!!!!!
