“I wish I could write something funny like Amy Schumer.” – me
So, here we are, on a regular Wednesday evening just bein’ like, “SUP WEDNESDAY!”
Except, no. Because this evening was the evening I chose to go to Target and try to find a dress.
Why was I trying to find a dress?
Oh. Because tomorrow the boy and I are having this fancy date. See, we had our “totally cute” date where we had a picnic and everything was mostly free, and now we’re having one where everything costs money, and he was like, “Hey! You should wear a dress, and I’ll wear a tie.”
Funny thing about that though, is that I literally have one dress. Before the flood of 2014, I might have had more dresses (actually, doubtful, but we’ll go with it) but now I just have one. It is long, and black, and I’ve worn it for two events.
So I was just like, “Black dress it is.” Honestly, haven’t worn the dress in a year. Don’t even know if it still fits. Wouldn’t care much if it didn’t. I… don’t dress up much, can you tell?
And then it occurred to me that I wouldn’t be going home to get ready for said date after work, and suddenly I didn’t feel like I should be fuckin’ Cleopatra during the day.
And earlier today, I got advice from my esthetician, who was so kind as to wax my eyebrows AND tell me what dress length to look for. The girl who rang me up was like, “Ohhh you’re going dress shopping?! What kinda dress?”
And I said, “Um. A regular one?”
Her smile faded.
So, I took my happy ass to Target, in order to find some sort of something that would be work-appropriate/summery/fancy-date material.
1) I HATE. hatehatehatehatehate shopping.
2) Remember the time I looked for shoes?
3) You should really only be allowed to go shopping if the mirror is able to talk you down from a ledge.
So. I go in, and I’m psyching myself up in the parking lot, right? I’m like, “You’re a tub of lard. NO YOU’RE NOT. You’re gonna die. NO YOU WON’T. Let’s find a dress!”
I picked out three dresses. The first one was like magenta, and made my huge boobs look huger, and also screamed pregnancy, in general. It was discarded. The second one was shorter in the front and longer in the back (there’s a fashion name for this, I don’t know what it is… THANKS OBAMA), but, alas, I was too short for it. The third one made my side fat bulge out like a bitch.
They all went back, and by that time, I was beyond encouraging pep talks. I had openly taken to whispering to myself, “You are a fat cow jiggle jiggle jiggle jiggle jiggle yeah.”
I went back and picked out four more dresses. The first one fit okay, but there were like … these… side wings? And I wasn’t sure if they were supposed to drape off your shoulders or if they were just decorative at the side. And I figured that since I could not figure it out, it was probably best to put it back.
The second one wouldn’t fit over my boobs OR my hips. DONE.
The third was … I don’t know what it was. I got it on, and said out loud, “Well. You look like a bag.” And then took that fucker off.
And the fourth was the one I ended up buying. I’m not like, truly sold on it, because I swear I have undiagnosed body dysmorphic disorder and I always feel like a size 102. But hopefully it’ll pass for something a girl would wear.
Also I could just lose weight. But like… ehhhh.
Have a good night, friends. Be kind to yourselves (and don’t listen when you’re calling yourself a fat cow. Because maybe you’re like a baby calf at most, okay?).