Secrets (no Lies)

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For as long as I can remember, my Mother has tried to act as my role model for all things appropriate. Thank you cards, the correct way to answer the phone, levels of obligation for the attendance of certain social functions, she was the Go To Lady. She also served as my personal stylist for the first 29 years of my life, bless her. That woman could sit at the kitchen table having her breakfast and reading the morning paper, look up to see me whip around the corner in some thrown-together ensemble and shoot it down with a facial twitch or one eyebrow. She was good.

If she knew what was happening today, her entire face would go into spasm.

I don't have a lot of clothing lately, what with the destitution and the fat and all. I don't feel like shopping and that's good because I don't have the means anyway. I hate my body and my pores and the fact that I get about one good week out of a hair appointment before the cursed silver strands peek out from my skull and ruin what was a very very good look for me. It's all rather disheartening.

So, I must be rather clever in the way I put together a week's outfits. I try not to duplicate colours two days in a row, to dress in accordance with the weather and weed out those articles that are shrinking ohmygodwhat'swrongwiththewashingmachineit's shrinkingeverying!

This morning I opened the door to the armoire to see if through the night any lovely faeries had made me anything new, left on scented hangers and tied up with pretty bows to make me smile. Hmmm, nope; guess I have to deal with all the tired stuff I had yesterday. So, bottom: my swingy black crepe dress pants. On top: tomato red shirt with daring neckline? Nah, long sleeved, not good for sickening heat. Green boatneck? Nah, I'm wearing khakis and green tomorrow. Hey, what's this? My cool safari bowling shirt, complete with zebras and leopards and giraffes (oh my)? Seriously, it's demure. It is. It IS. They're all lazing in the tall grass and it's all muted colours and I love it. So good, choice made. It even looked good.

While standing up.

Once I hopped into Pepe and started to back out of the laneway I noticed some pretty serious tugging around the backs of my arms. I glanced down and saw huge gaping holes, dramatically showing off my very attractive belly fat here, there and everywhere. A quick time check told me there was no way to go back and rectify the situation without being late for work. I would have to spend the rest of the day paying close attention to my posture, lest I gross out my colleagues.

At work, I skittered into the washroom and considered my options. Then it hit me: this strapless bra is one size bigger than I am now; maybe it's just too much fabric? I ducked into a stall and removed the offending item. I felt much better and things didn't seem to be straining so much. I stepped out of the stall and timidly checked the mirror: better. Marginally. Then I saw that the pattern of the blouse didn't quite cover up the fact that the air conditioning was very effective in this part of the building. Bandaids? Maybe, but I'll have to find them later, I have to get back to my office.

So here I sit, my bra in my bag, the girls forced to be Out There and Vulnerable. The one saving grace in all this is that I'm slated to go directly to my Mom's after work tomorrow. And tomorrow kids, I'm going to be wearing some seriously boobie-appropriate clothing. Trust me.