Tuesday, 26 November 2013

Monster of the Bride

We were discussing my daughter Marissa's upcoming wedding, scheduled for the Dominican Republic in a year, and she said this.
The guys are wearing shorts.
And then this.
But you can't wear shorts, mum.
Oh, she of little faith. How on Earth could she imagine that I would do such at thing? Embarrass her at her own wedding?
And you can't wear pants, either.

Frankly, I was incredulous.
I have not been in a skirt or dress for ten years.
Even at my own wedding five years ago, I wore pants.
Truth be told, I did look like a waiter from Hy's.


I wasn't always this way.
Used to have a fashion sense.
But ever since I gained, like 50 pounds, I haven't figured out how to dress except to wear pants or the middle aged woman's fashion alternative, capris.
I don't have a waist anymore, so I can't fit anything around the middle despite two years working out at the gymnasty. And I can't find a dress that looks good given the fact I have size gazillion knockers.
Dresses all look like house dresses on me.
I'm starting to resemble Ma Kettle.

Nothing feminine looks good on me. Nothing with color looks good on me.
So I don't bother dressing up. As a result, I go nowhere except to the gym and the grocery store.
I live in yoga pants.
I bought a pair of real pants the other day and Scott said: "Oh, they look just like yoga pants."
Not. They were jeggings.
So I'm trying to arrange a meeting over at Shepherd's, the place where short and fat, or tall and fat girls go to figure out what on Earth to wear for a formal occasion.
I'm not going to like it. Not one bit.
I've heard they make you wear sleeves.
Hey! I'm going to the Caribbean to celebrate Marissa and Jeff's Big Fat Biracial Wedding.
Sleeves? A dress? Heels?
If she says I have to wear stockings, I'm going throwing a fit.
They won't be able to get me on the plane. I'll attach myself to the car door like a lamprey eel, I'll sing I'm Not Going in my loudest, sweetest alto. I'll bring knitting needles.
So sorry, Marissa.
The Air Marshal says knitting needles are banned from the flight.
And they are, unfortunately, Krazy Glued to my hands.
How did that happen??


I'm kidding.
Kidding.
Really kidding.
Seriously.
I need a fashion intervention.
Somebody help me!

 

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