Long story short, I look like I've been sent down the catwalk dressed by Omar the Tentmaker.
It pains me to say that this is quite possibly the worst look EVER for a short, chunky, middle-aged woman.
In case you were wondering.
I decided to go with your basic, slimming black (which, in my humble opinion, hides a multitude of sin and tummy bulges) with some cunning little purple, white and turquoise splashes of color, hither and yon. It's quite fancy, in it's own casual "made for hot summer days" kind of way. It has your necessary boob enhancing bodice... shows the girls in their best possible light without exposing them for all the world to see... wide straps to cover the sensible bra that those of us with bosoms need to wear so our tatas don't hang down to our belly buttons....
I'm telling you all, I put a lot of thought into this purchase.
And I looked STUNNING in the dressing room mirror. I looked at least a foot and a half taller, 40 (maybe even 50) pounds thinner, 20 years younger...
I looked like a GODDESS.
A GODDESS in desperate need of a tan, but a GODDESS none the less.
I couldn't make it to the register fast enough to pay for this magical dress.
When I got home I could barely wait to slide this bewitching garment over my head and charm the pants off of my husband with my stunning beauty/instant weight loss/height enhancement/agereduction.
I sexily sashayed into the bedroom and changed into my ensemble, the one I swore to never take off, never, and possibly even wear to my own funeral.
I posed seductively in front of the mirror.
A short, fat, squat, troll who had the NERVE to be wearing MY DRESS posed seductively back at me.
|Me, in my magical maxi dress.|
|Fat bitch having the nerve to stare back at me from my bedroom mirror.|
That CAN'T be right, I informed myself. I looked AMAZING in the mirror in the dressing room. AMAZING.
I could have been a super model in that dress in that dressing room. I seriously almost called Tyra and said, "Stop the search for America's Next Top Model, baby... I got your winner right here. Oh, and send Nigel to do the photo shoot, por favor."
(I looked so fabulous, dahling, that I found myself thinking in French. Or Spanish. Whichever.)
I could hear Dan in the living room bellowing (because he's super quiet), "HEY! COME SHOW ME THIS DRESS!'
Me: *in the bedroom, still stunned by the fatty in the mirror* "No."
Dan: "Whaddaya mean, NO? Come out here! I wanna see it!"
Me: *obviously too fat to even walk from the bedroom to the living room* "I can't."
Dan: *thundering into the bedroom like a herd of overweight buffalo*
Me: *standing in front of the mirror*
Dan: *because he's a stupid, stupid man* "Why'd ya get that? Is it a muumuu?"
Dear Portion Of Universe Responsible For Condemnation To Hell,
Referring to my uber fabulous maxi dress as a muumuu is, indeed, a valid reason to maim, torture, and kill, yes?
Thank you for your understanding in this matter.
After sobbing pathetically for days and swearing vengeance on Dan, the dressing room at the department store where I purchased said dress, the dress itself, and whatever asshole decided that maxi dresses should be "in" this summer, I decided that it's the mirror in MY bedroom that's flawed.
Today, I weareth my maxi dress with pride.
And this has nothing to do with the fact that I have no intention of leaving the house today. I swear.
|Shut up, you Texas douchebag. You're fat, too. So neener neener.|