Wednesday, June 13, 2012


Let me preface this post by saying that I was just looking at potential bathing suits/bikinis online. While the colors and styles are inspired by old Havana, the model looks like she could use a bucket of fried chicken and trip to Dairy Queen, you know, maybe grow some hips, boobs, something. It was hard to take her seriously when I am assuming her shoes weigh more than she does. Havana my ass.

Anywho, I promised my best girl pal that I would write about the experience we had yesterday. And I want to do it now, while the whole thing is still fresh in my mind.

It all began with a trip to the mall. I hate malls. I mean truly despise them. In fact, I think that at the front entrance to every mall, there should be a kiosk where you can buy anti-depressants and nip bottles of Wild Turkey. That's for starters. Maybe some Imitrex, too, for the inevitable migraine you will get.

But, I love her, and she, I don't think, doesn't know how much I hate malls (well maybe now she does). We were on a mission to get her a decent suit for a job interview. Sounds pretty simple, right? I mean, it's a suit. Pants, jacket, shoes to match, you're done.

Not quite, Nichole. Not quite. You see, like almost every other woman I know, my friend has a unique figure. She calls herself a pear. I tell her she has more curves than 40 miles of bad road. And let's just say that it's hard to put a pear in a matchbox. Our first stop was at Lane Bryant, a supposed "plus size" store. Although, I have no idea what that even means. Plus what? Plus the 85 lbs a runway model weighs?

A trip to the dressing room revealed that the blazers were gonna work great. A second trip indicated that pants were going to be a problem.

"We can just try Macy's" we both agreed nonchalantly. Yeah, sure. Way, way back in a neglected corner of the store, that wasn't well-lit and smelled weird, the "women's 14-24" section loomed lonely. A thorough combing over of the pants options revealed a)that most of the pants were elastic waist "mom" pants with no style at all b) the only color options were brown, navy and black and c) you have to be at least 6 feet tall in order to wear plus sizes.

It was a depressing adventure.

"I want you to blog about this," she said. "This right here, this is how it has been for me. Welcome to my hell." I could feel her confidence fading. On the car ride to the mall, we were both piss and vinegar. Sarcastic, laughing, optimistic--talking about our, ahem, conquests, our accomplishments, the awesome dinners we did and didn't make.

All over a f*cking pair of pants.

Later, after a few crappy mojitos and mediocre margaritas, the car ride home (most of which we travelled in neutral due to a "fuel level misunderstanding") provided me with a confessional opportunity.

"Ya know, I think this has less to do with what's on the outside than what's on the inside," I said. "I put on a good show for the most part, but sometimes, girl, I feel like an ugly-ass seventh grader, a freak trapped in a woman's body. God, we're good at messing ourselves up."

"We're experts," she said, lighting her third cigarette. "I think everybody is like that. Inside themselves, I mean. Some of them can hide it really well."

"Or, they're just too cocky to even know where that mess is."

"Yeah, well, once you find it, you gotta clean it up, and that's no fun."

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