“A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. I think I’m feeling a little fullness!”
Nothing reminds you that you haven’t been to a gym in nearly three months like going to a seamstress to get the new trousers you bought mere weeks ago tailored to meet your exacting petite standards…only to find that you maybe aren’t as petite as could be desired, girth-wise.
“What do you need?” she growled.
I put on a bright smile and help up three pairs of trousers. “Just some hemming.” The glare intensified so I actually stuttered, “Unless you’re booked, I could try someplace else-”
“When you need by?” came the rumbling demand.
“Oh, whenever you get done with them,” I said meekly while my alter ego Small Dog looked down from on high and howled in embarrassment for my lack of spine.
“Not ’til mid October!” she snarled.
“Ok,” I smiled, heart wilting at the thought of my lunch break wasted, and turned towards the door when she waved a hand towards the changing room.
“No! In there! Put them on!”
I was going to say that I had already measured and knew that I just needed two inches off…but I thought better of it and obediently trudged into the room to strip.
It was then that I noticed that the trousers seemed a bit tight, but ever the (cautious) optimist, I chalked it up to bad lighting. Then I fastened the first pair around myself, looked at my reflection, and blanched.
Now, to explain. I’m short (duh!) but I also have no waist. Well I do, but there’s only an inch and a half between my ribs and my pelvis, as if someone took me by the feet and head and scrunched. Therefore I’ve got the same organs, skin, and…er…other bits that normal women have but all compressed and with no where exactly to go but…out. Diet and exercise keeps everything in place, but as I said before I haven’t been a gym bunny for some months now.
And friends, out everything has come.
Having tumbled down a well of despair (actually, having formulated a ruthless plan of attack incorporating carrot sticks and dragging a hapless Venice along to the gym with me as a workout buddy) I stepped back out to face the dragonish woman crouched menacingly on her stool by the unforgiving three-way mirror.
“Where are you from?” she growled, trying to make small talk while she thumped around her shop for measuring tape and pins.
“Here for the last few years. My family is in England.”
The dour look started to slide off her face as she happily declared she was from Ukraine. I gulped and nodded as she whipped the tape around me in twenty directions. But the day was saved when she measured me head to toe.
“Just under five feet! You are same height as my daughters!”
From then on we were pals.
Now to reacquaint myself with the gym, because I don’t think I can go through this ordeal again to have anything taken out!