And I am a size XL. Which also means that I can never walk into a store and look around imperiously, grab the first thing that hits my eyeballs and walk out without a ‘trial’. You know. I miss those days. When I would ask the shopkeepers in arrogance of slimness. Medium hai na? And they would nod in the affirmative, rendered speechless by my perfect proportions, and not need to even gently hint towards the dratted trial room. Yup. The room named appropriately. Tis a trial to get in there. I got inside one yesterday. Under much duress. Read the salesman almost had to frogmarch me inside one, something he managed to accomplish by surrounding me with other sales staff holding out what they saw me leaning gently towards. So that was how I found myself in a tiny cubicle with a three way mirror and too well lit for comfort. I have many rules for survival in such extreme circumstances. The first is Thou shalt not look at thyself when stripped to essentials pre trial. Of course I broke that rule immediately. Accidentally ofcourse. And then collapsed in sobbing mound of lard on the floor of said trial room in mourning for the complete demise of figure. Alas, my waistline. How I miss you. I will never know the pleasure of wearing a pair of trousers without worrying about rolls hanging over the waistband ever again. And are those my thighs. Or was a chicken defeathered and its skin slapped onto mine.
And then the actual trials. You think the clothes have a hurried whispered conference and decide to do a shrinking act between the time they are on the shelf and the time they get into the trial room, and refuse to go anywhere past your wrists, and allow only half your head to get through the neck. If a top. And even if they consent, through determined wriggling and jumping and huffing and puffing to get up the thighs, if trousers, they suddenly contract on your body like cling film making it impossible to get both sides of the zip parallel enough to close.
I was there in said store yesterday to pick up a top to be worn on a momentous occasion. The fifth birthday of the fruit of the womb. Wherein, being gracious hostess, I would be compelled to outbling every other lady on the premises. Therefore. I was picking up tops with the kind of golden embroidery that in normal circumstances I would bypass without a second glance. And given that they were all in chiffon type materials to be worn with chemise type thingie inside, the concept scared me Dare I risk be convicted of spreading pink eye disease?
With tremulously swallowing of ego, I handed out the pile loads I had taken in to said sales staff, waiting wringing hands in anticipation outside for spectacle of fat woman emerging in too tight outfit and making complete fool of self. No ho, I am smarter than that. I asked for kaftan type tops. You know. Resort wear. Fringed with some sequins. All concealing. All forgiving. In XL sizes. XL has a certain ring to it that L doesnt . It sounds like the size of a determined woman. Who has ascertained her place in the scheme of the world and is determined to hold on to it, unlike these mediums and Larges who are wishy washy and cant make up their minds whether they need to be gorgons or gnat like.
I finally settled for a brocade patchwork kind of button down the front jacket. Perfect. No bling. No clinging to lumps that once were sharp waist indents. And no need of camisoles to accentuate where the fat has settled in and is throwing house parties. No need to dislocate vertebrae through constant craning of neck to check where the damn thing has ripped as one reached to pull squabbling kids apart. You know.