Disappeared

Posture is incredibly important when trying on dresses. One needs to do the tummy suck, the invisible heels, the mental vow to lose 10lbs before the event, and the books-on-head, slow-motion twirl in order to see how amazing the dress will look in 'real life'. As if we walk around like that in real life.

I stared at my reflection under fluorescent lights, unwedgie-ing an unsightly panty-line with my middle finger. I looked back at my slumped self, no makeup, greasy hair, sports bra and old lady underwear showing through. My arms got really jiggly since I last stepped into a changeroom. My skin was dry. I haven't shaved my legs in a week. I looked like a crazy woman who found a prom dress in the trash 20 years ago and has refused to take it off since. It was a gross sight, believe me. I'm getting old enough to understand the woman's hatred for dress hunting. It's meant for prom queens and tiny models who live on the verge of starvation. Not for a girl with fat poking out of the armpits of my bra.

I've drifted to unclassy in the last year or so. I've disappeared. I'm not this person. I loved dresses. I loved putting on heels and parading around a hall, spreading whispers of lipstick kisses on various cheeks. I used to be the one people wanted to be around.

I'm afraid this time around I'll end up sitting by myself at a round table with a shawl and 'practical' shoes that show off my fat ankles, and taking pictures of people who are crossing their fingers that I don't post it on Facebook to associate us as friends. It doesn't look promising.