No Joy in Plumpville

I went shopping for a bathing suit the other day, and to my horror I discovered that I’ve finally reached a size where all suits come with little skirts. Even I have to admit that it looks better that way, but it’s official: society no longer wishes to gaze upon my thighs. Ah well. It was a good run.

That reminded me of the time I was in a mall and noticed that Victoria’s Secret was having a sale. None of their underwear on the display case was my size. So I asked the skinny little teen-aged clerk if they had any. She got this amused look on her face and said, yes we do. We just keep it hidden in this drawer right here.

I purchased what I had come for, and being the non-confrontational type, I left. But I wish I had walked up to the clerk and said, as if talking to a puppy, “You’re sooooo cute! You actually think you’ll be that size all your life! I was your size at your age. The difference is, I’m a nice person, so I’m still liked. What will you do when you have no body AND no personality? Poor thing.”

I do derive a great deal of comfort from the fact that the aging process will bite that girl in the butt sooner or later. It’s the great equalizer. Karma in the form of cellulite.


[Image credit:]


3 thoughts on “No Joy in Plumpville

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