…and how quick thinking saved the day. And also why ALL is my best new store. So it came to pass on the 10th day of the month of October that I would be in a fancy schmancy designer type store in Andheri leafing through the racks for top of proportion and design suitable to corpulent self. And this was the occasion that tops shrunk in the short trek from the display rack to the trial room. And on this day, it was decreed that the only thing available that would fit me would be a brocade patchwork imitation designer type which the husband would lift cursory eyebrow up and ask if I’d cobbled together scraps from a marketplace darzi, or whether I had dared to pay good money to be seen in public thus. So there I was, all dressed up to go for event, with new patchwork top, jeans and fancy shoes… and sprayed with appropriate amount of perfume so as to not render any unfortunate souls luckless enough to be in the near vicinity senseless through olfactory overdose. When I suddenly realised the stomach was wonderfully cool, with nice airconditioned draft of breeze right on skin. Looked down in horror to find the buttons collapsing on me. Much in the manner of the slapstick commedies where the unfortunate object of humour looks down at self and then looks up at audience, repeats act a couple of times before realising is clad in nothing but underwear, and ratty ones at that and flees using hands to cover self. Of course, I could flee nowhere, me being in the car, being driven to said party. And it already being an hour later than the time stated and underlined on the invitation (what can I say? I am normally very punctual. Its the traffic, its always the traffic. The traffic ate up my homework too.)
I cast desperate eyes around. Such a predicament, could not explain the dire situ to said driver who was playing his I have full permission to drive at warp speed since we are stinkingly late card. So couldnt focus on the shops we were passing. Then I spotted a shop that said ALL. Aka A Little Larger. Just two minutes before said venue. It showed promise. Big size clothing hung in the display window. Of course, I could have also stopped for safety pins, but that wouldnt have been me.
Stop the car, I yelled, much in the same manner that person marooned on tiny island yells when supplies biplane passes randomly over, only I didnt have the chance or the space to do the running around along long stretch of white beach. I did the second best thing, I sprinted out of the car into the store, despite them strappy copper stilletoes, pounced on the first sales girl I could find, caught her shoulders and yelled manically, shaking them scrawny shoulders, show me a black camisole. Now. Now. Yes, yes, madam, she said in frightened tone, withdrawing her scrawny shoulders from my grip with a speedy maneouvre, that should have warned me that someone at the cash counter was pressing a little bell under the drawer to call the security in to surround me and frogmarch me to secure custody if required.
And she pulled out a huge black sleeveless tshirt. I could have fit into it. Along with the husband. You know, those tshirts with a single neck and two sleeves, which corny lover types wear and have one hand free and concealed to wander over parts of the body better left untouched in public situations. No, no, I said. This is too huge. Show me something smaller. She shrank a bit into the wall and looked around for back up. “Madam, that is our starting size. That is our size zero.”
Did I tell you I love this brand? I finally went to the party wearing a size zero camisole, under brocade malfunctioning buttons left open jacket, and used a shovel to deflect all the compliments coming my way. Surely, the smugness of wearing a size zero had something to do with it.