My big problem can be found on the
front of my chest. Though most people would look at me and think, “Well, she
could stand to lay off some fried chicken for a while, but other than that,
she’s sort of proportionate,” try telling that to the people who make bras and
shirts and dresses and anything else that may cover this area.
Button-down shirts have been my
enemy for a long time and I can forget about ever getting a garment that has a
stitched-in designated area where my chest is expected to “behave” and stay in
place for any length of time. Most shirts in my size, which ranges from large
to 2X depending on the design, are too wide on the bottom because the top has
to make room or too short over all because they are being pulled up.
Efforts to buy a new bathing suit
are soul crushing adventures to see how much underarm fat I can squish out of
the straps. I usually buy the first or second one I try on if they can contain
the important body parts and then loathe the purchase the remainder of the
year.
I miss the simple days when I was a
kid and my clothes were bought for me. I remember my mom complaining about how
hard it was to buy pants for me because I was so tall AND skinny.
I took my son to the store a couple
of weeks ago for new basketball shoes. He walked up to the name brand he knew
was the coolest and picked the color that matched his mood, black. They were
the most expensive, but I’m sure they’d help his game.
It was so easy and I saw that the
store had no adorable size 11 women’s sandals for me, so all I had to do was
help him choose the right size he needed.
What he doesn’t know is that he’s
going to be a big man when he grows up. In the future, he may not be able to
buy his shoes in these stores. He’s already wearing size 12s and he is 12! I
look at him and his nose is at my eyeball.
My daughter tried on Easter dresses
last month. She picked 10 to take to the dressing room. It was a simple task
for her. She walked through the section calling out, “Size 7, size 7, size 7,”
as she flung the gowns out to me, her personal shopping aide.
She modeled each dress and posed in
the mirror talking to herself and chattering to me the entire time. “I want
them all!”
“We aren’t getting them all,” I told
her.
“Okay, mommy. Then I’ll take these
two.” She held up her favorites and pleaded with her eyes. Grandma had sent
money for one dress, not two, I explained. “Plus, you need shoes.”
She sighed and settled for one and
the shoe shopping was horrible because all the cutest shoes in her size
happened to be sold out or in the wrong color.
Get used to that, kiddo. If your
feet are anything like mine, it is only going to get worse.
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