Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Fat Arms

I was forced to shop for a dress last weekend because I had to go to a funeral.  It's so rare for me to dress up that when I do, I'm forced to shop for new clothes since the ones in my closet are seriously out of style.  Now you're probably thinkin'...why doesn't she just get herself one simple little black dress that won't go out of style???  What is she?  Stoopid?  As a matter of fact, I am and well...duh...I've tried that.  And guess what???  Apparently when you add on the tonnage it doesn't just go to the thighs and butt.   Who knew?  I mean, I realize that now I have a fat stomach, but I thought it, along with every lump and bulge, could be covered by a dress and all would be right with the world.  I was wrong.   Not only can the lower extremities no longer be covered by the old clothes, now the upper extremities are full of flabby flesh too!

Until this weekend...I had no idea my arms were so fat.  Okay, maybe I had a little idea, but seriously...WTF???  How do you get fat on your arms?  And flab? And how can they be fat and flabby at the same time?  I mean if you go from fat to thin I can see where there'd be flab (as in loose skin & no muscle tone), but going from fairly fit to fat why is there flab? We're talking major jiggly here.   Apparently I wasn't as fairly fit as I fought (please note that was an intentional error...I kinda got caught up in the whole "f" thing...I was hearing Fudian...as in Elmer...I know I'm weird but I can't help it).

When I have to shop for something, I usually do it alone.  I'm not out to socialize.  Shopping has never been a "social" thing for me...

except shopping for plants...

I could happily do that all day.

Shopping for clothes, on the other hand, is painful.  Clothes only seem to look good on hangers, mannequins, or thin women...none of which describe me...at all.   As always, I head for the dark (preferably black) dresses.  Someone either told me or I read that black makes you look slimmer.  I don't know if it's really true or not.  It probably just draws less attention than some brightly flowered number will so people don't notice you...and if they don't notice you, they don't notice how fat you've become...just a theory.  Since I now have fat arms, sleeveless options are out unless I can find a jacket or sweater to cover the blubber that hovers between my shoulders and elbows.  The quest begins. 

I grab two black dresses and head for the dressing room.  As always, I'm sidetracked by other things.  This time it's capri's...

which are on sale...

which I don't need...

which I grab anyway.  Off I go...

Let me tell you, there are few things more brutal in life than a dressing room mirror...on a wall...in a room bathed in fluorescent light. Why do they insist on that type of lighting?  I know it's cheaper, but wouldn't they sell more clothes if people could see themselves in a more flattering light?  Like candlelight?  It's much more flattering.  Or is it just that it's dark and you can't really see things as well?  I dunno...I, for one, think it should be mandatory in all dressing rooms. 

It was torture.  Oh sure, they say water boarding's bad (not really torture though...government says so), and I'm sure ripping someones teeth out with a pair of pliers is no fun (torture...by any ones definition...unless it's done humanely through the marvels of modern dentistry), but seriously...I'm thinkin' I'd at least try the water boarding, just to see if it was as bad as everyone says and in any case, I'm sure my psyche was damaged beyond repair this weekend. 

Unfortunately I wasn't blinded by the pasty whiteness of overabundant flesh looking back at me from the mirror.  There I was standing there in my Hanes Boxer Briefs...

which I love...

which they quit making...

which I can't even find on eBay...

and my Sassybax bra...(which is probably the most unattractive brassiere made and also the most comfortable I've ever worn). 

It was horrible...it was a painful...and I willingly subjected myself to it.  Well, actually I wasn't totally willing...if you get right down to it I was kind of forced and left with no other options.  And if I'm being totally honest, I have to admit I always wait until the very last minute to begin this type of endeavor...every time...and end up feeling rushed and stressed...I am, without a doubt, the Queen of Procrastination.

I ended up buying a black button up shirt dress only because it fit and I was sick of trying on dresses (all two of 'em) in the torture chamber (aka/dressing room).  Next I'm off to find a pair of plain black heels...that I can keep forever in my closet for all occasions.  Easy peasy, right???  Wrong!!!  The only plain black shoes I could find all had ten inch heels. 

I know I may be stoopid, okay...no maybe about it, but I do have a sense of self preservation that screamed at me from my innards when I looked at those heels. (That's kind of a white trash word, isn't it? Innards..it's what you'd pull out of a chicken being plucked.)  Forget the fact that I'd be walking on tippy toes all day...I know I'd end up with foot cramps.  You know, the kind that start painfully in the bottom of your arch, work their way around to the top, and make your toes turn into misshapen claws?  I get them all the time...very annoying...and painful...and they always seem to strike at the most inopportune moments, don't they?  Of course I guess when you stop and think about it, is there ever really an "opportune" moment for a foot cramp???  I mean really?  I've never heard anyone say "Oh man, I wish my foot would freeze into one of those weird shapes right now" or anything remotely close to that...ever. 

On a side note, as I'm sitting her typing, Avatar is playing on one of the movie channels in the background.  I liked it, but doesn't it just seem like Dances With Wolves in space?  Why does my mind wander like this?  Will I ever learn to focus?

So my quest for funeral attire now leads me to the mall in search of plain black heels.  Once inside and in the middle, I'm immediately accosted by a dark complected young man with an accent who wants to sell me some type of heated hair appliance...blow dryer or flat iron I think...but.. all I can see are his perfectly drawn on eyebrows.  In my heart of hearts, I know he's used one of those eyebrow templates to gain such perfect eyebrow symmetry.  I manage, quite successfully, not to laugh as he begins his spiel and actually manage to cut him off mid sentence by...

holding my hand up toward his mouth...

tilting my head slightly down and to the side...

and, saying in my sternest motherly tone "I'm sorry but I really don't have time for this...I'm on a mission to get shoes to wear to a funeral". 

It totally worked!  Eyebrow Boy actually pointed me to the shoe store nearest his little kiosk (which I had just walked past because it's the most expensive store in the mall).

"They have very good high quality shoes"  says my new found salesman friend with drawn on eyebrows in his accented voice as he points to the high dollar store "you should go there".

So what do I do?  I go to the high dollar store.  I now feel somehow obligated to Eyebrow Boy since he stopped his sales pitch mid sentence and offered me help.  The blow dryer or flat iron would have been cheaper.  I leave the high dollar store with a pair of high dollar shoes.  I know they're not Jimmy Choo's, but for me, it was tough, especially since I know that after I wear them once they're destined to sit unused in my closet.

So I spent the better part of a day on my quest for a dress.  As it turns out, the dress and shoes didn't look good together.  The shoes are kind of Mary Jane's with heels.  I figured I'd just live with it.  The funeral was out of town so the next morning I drove with a friend for hours...and hours...and hours...

When we get to the hotel, I remember I don't have a toothbrush.  I actually knew this & had planned to stop & buy one, but as usual, I forgot.  (Menopausal...no memory) So my friend & I run over to Tar-Jay so I can grab a toothbrush. 

 I walk into Tar-Jay and there hanging on a rack is a sleeveless black dress.  On the rack next to it is a white sweater like thing with 3/4 length sleeves that's kind of drapey and a perfect cover for fat arms. (Is drapey really a word???)  So in about 5 minutes I have a new funeral outfit that was way better looking than the original.  No fuss, no muss, no stress...

I'd like to return the original dress and recoup a few $$$ but as usual, I can't find the receipt.  Why??? Because I threw it away of course...Why?  Who the fuck knows?????  It's the stoopidist thing.