I am facing a first-world quandary of epic female proportions. It is every girl’s worst nightmare.
I have no-one to blame but myself and my insatiable appetite. I’ve eaten every fucking pie put under my nose over the past few months and now my dress refuses to compromise.
It’s annoying because this was supposed to be a magical moment in my life and my marriage where I proved to the old man that I can save money and am not as shallow as he thinks I am. Which is why I decided months ago that I would wear a previously-worn dress (*shudder*) to my birthday dinner in an effort to show him just how much I’ve grown up, now that I’m nearly fifty.
I’ll give you a few minutes to absorb that information, ladies.
It wasn’t THAT dire a decision in reality. I’d only worn it once before, during my recent trip to Europe – so it isn’t like any of my friends had seen it on me before and I was told it flattered my more delicate curves then, before I lost all self-restraint and respect and piled on several kilos because I thought it would make me feel better to add a packet of vege-chips each evening to my glasses of wine and to finish off Kurt’s Pods whenever he wasn’t looking.
(Who doesn’t finish a bag of Pods? How did I produce such a lightweight for a son.)
So, all in all, I think it was a pretty damn mature decision of mine to resist buying a new dress for such an epic event in my life. But I figured that this new-found 50-something wisdom that I’m supposed to have found, means that I understand now that it’s not the superficial stuff that counts.
Not the wrapper, but its contents.
So I sated my need to spend by buying some new shoes instead…which were in the sale…so effectively I actually saved us money.
But every time I try on the bloody dress, it gets tighter around the waist, pinches my boobs and exposes my bat wings. When did I forget that women of a certain age shouldn’t wear ‘sleeveless’ dresses? And I can’t help questioning if I really want to hold my breath in all evening so my muffin top doesn’t make an impromptu Kravitz-esque appearance.
And then there’s the galling fact that the Spanx cost me more that a new dress and yet they still struggle to contain my Pods baby.
So I have two options left: a frantic and disastrous last-minute expedition to the mall that I know will end in more self-loathing and tears, because the first law of being a woman is never to buy clothing when you feel fat, or option 2: to wear an even older dress from my wardrobe – preferably maternity – with ‘give’ in the waistband, but which everyone will have seen before.
What I have to avoid is the inevitable immaturity of the ‘I’ve got nothing to wear’ tantrum on the night, minutes before the guests arrive, because VERY deep down…SO deep down that I can’t really locate it, I know I SHOULD know that what I wear is not why people are coming.
My friends are coming for the wine.