Just so weíre clear, just because I believe in being honest, just because if I donít say it, it may not be true in a day or so, itís not a full ten pounds.
Itís not quite a bag of flour, or a bag of potatoes or your incredibly large infant. Itís not my cat. Itís not quite the difference between one dress size and another. It is not ten pounds. But it is 9.8 pounds and I had it seven weeks ago, and I donít have anymore.
Letís rewind six months, shall we? I spent New Yearís Eve in North Carolina, at a James Bond-themed ball at a posh hotel full of people who canít dance. I bought a new dress for the occasion, and it was a very pretty teal, and it fit, and thatís about all I can say about it. There are pictures of me in the new frock that, well, I mean, I liked the way my hair looked, right? And you know, the Girls, they looked rather resplendent too, I suppose. And thatís something, isnít it? But the dress, or rather, me in the dress - because letís not blame an innocent and highly forgiving garment here - was a bit of a letdown, a bit of a disappointment. I had reached the apex of my weight; there was only so much the poor frock could do.
Last night, I went to a wedding, a seriously fun, wonderfully grand Greek wedding, where I was looking forward to enjoying the champagne, and the lobster tail, but mostly, I was wondering how they were going to work tzatziki into the menu, because seriously poppets. Tzatziki makes the world a better place. I was looking forward to holding strangersí hands and stumbling through the Greek dances, circling the room and weaving around tables as I followed the bride and her handkerchief and mastered the irregular timing of the skips and the hops. I was looking forward to breaking it down, Zorba style. What I was not looking forward to was wondering if I at least looked better than Anthony Quinn in a dress. I needed to pull the pretty teal out of the closet, and I wasnít looking forward to looking in the mirror, shrugging my shoulders and muttering, ďItíll do.Ē
Now, look, I know I could have bought a new one. And I am a lot of things, poppets, but I am not wasteful. You may think that owning 47 pairs of shoes is wasteful, but I wear all of those shoes Ė sometimes in one weekend. I am not wasteful. So when I had a pretty dress that fit, and that was appropriate for the occasion, that needed wearing to justify the cost, then I canít very well throw good pesos away on a new one that isnít going to look any better on my zenith of an ass, can I?
And so I wore it, settled with the idea that at least the dress was pretty, at least Iíd look, you know, alright. Iíd look alright. Let me tell you something, poppets. Ten pounds is ten pounds, but 9.8 has something pretty good to say for itself, too.
The dress, the dress still fit. I wonít lie; the dress was not too big. I did not suddenly have space in the fabric that I didnít have before. But, it wasÖ better. I looked better. I lookedÖ better than alright. I looked ok. Itís not false modesty; when I look fantastic, Iím not shy about screaming it from the rooftops. So I didnít look fantastic. But itís coming.
I looked ok, and thatís not bad. Onwards.
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