So, I have a bone to pick.
I'm walking out of Starbucks this morning, tall white chocolate mocha in one hand, lemon coffee cake in the other. I step off the curb at a handicapped parking spot that was empty in what was a doomed attempt to cross the street to my car. Along comes this big fat guy in his Lincoln. He's looking to his right but turning left at about 25 miles an hour. I dive out of the way and he starts yelling at me and glaring. HE almost hit ME! Handicapped is right.
Then, I call to order my bridesmaid dress for Joanna's wedding. The lady takes my measurements and tells me I'm a size 8. Now, for those of you who don't know how women's sizes work, they can be fairly tricky. There are juniors and there are women's. These dresses are in the women's sizes, and normally I wear between a 4 and a 6. So the 8 diagnosis worries me. Not because I'm worried about actually being an 8 - if you know me, you know I don't care what size I am or what my weight is. The problem is that I think she's wrong. And I think I'm going to have to pay not only to shorten the dress (because apparently I'm freakishly short), but I'm also going to have some major tailoring done. I have a feeling that this will not be cheap. My boss overhears me on the phone and says "No, you're not a size 8. Well, wait... you do kind of have a bubble butt. Maybe that will take up some space." Thanks.
I think I woke up tired. That must be the problem. Either that or the whole world really is out to get me. Hmm...
Wow, that felt good. Thanks for listening.
No comments:
Post a Comment