Today let's get beyond the magnifying mirror suctioned to my vanity (read A Beauty-filled Season), and go straight for the full length version, multiplied by three for multi-angled viewing! (Have you ever seen that mirror room in "What Not to Wear?" Ooh, gives me the willies!)
I'm talking about dressing rooms. Rooms which, up until this year, I didn't have too much of a problem being in. Where trying on cute dresses and tops and crops really was a fun experience. Until I grew a size bigger.
Recently I shopped the racks for at least half an hour, and with optimism and excitment at my finds, brought several summery outfits into the dressing room, only to take off every piece in discouragement.
Why was nothing fitting right?
Oh, gee, could it be I was shopping last year's size?
This is a new year and a new size, sistah!
In fact, not to brag, but I am the heaviest I have ever been outside of pregnancy.
Returning to the rack to browse a larger dress size had deflated any sense of fun this spree had brought me.
It was a tight-throated, purse-lipped experience.
Go ahead, purse your lips right now.
Brings on the tight throat and bleak outlook doesn't it?
That is when shopping -- and the dressing room -- became a thing no longer desirable.
Call it middle-age spread, or slower metabolism, or just plain weight gain, it all means the same thing. No matter the person, to "graduate" into the next size up is not an accomplishment to be relished.
These days, though my left brain is telling me, Don't eat another cookie! or Get up and get some exercise!, my right brain is trying to find a less "painful" way to make try-ons a more positive experience. And I think I have it figured out.
The next time I take a trip to that
(under)armor to protect me from that image in the three-way mirror.
It's called Spanx.
See you at the next foundation sale!
P.S. Here are some other random dressing room moments.
- One of my girls lost her first tooth in a Target dressing room. I think I was trying on shorts.
- During one of my more recent and discouraging dressing room experiences (trying on several pairs of black shorts with my pasty white thighs decorated with squiggly purple lines is not a day brightener), I got a text from my daughter that our pet parakeet, Jayda, had finally chirped his last. I've mentioned my brave, feathered 'keet in Lessons from a Bird Brain. Little did I know in September that the cause of his initial lameness was a tumor growing in his abdomen. It caused many problems at the end. Now we are all at peace. And I am managing to get through the early summer season without any black shorts.