I’m not fat, bitches, I’m healthy.
February 12, 2008
And yet, tonight, at a rehearsal for a burlesque show, which is SUPPOSED to feature BUXOM women, I was handed a handful of dresses made for a fucking TEENAGER and basically stared at, speechless, when I couldn’t stuff my size-10 ass into them.
(This, mind you, is a week after a coworker “jokingly” referred to me as “husky”)
I’m standing there, trying not to cry, when the skinniest girl in the cast, PICKS UP one of the things that doesn’t fit me, slides into it like she’s greased with Crisco and the damned thing is made of Teflon, and starts dancing around like she’s Jennifer Beals, it’s 1985*, and the whole room just paid a bucket of money to brave the cold in their Members Only jackets to watch the hottest woman of the decade get a bucket of water dumped on her while she’s wearing a leotard.
The big shitter in all of this? I just lost 12 pounds.
Shall I drown my sorrows in whiskey (and become a drunk), ice cream (and get fatter), or whiskey AND ice cream (and become a fatter drunk)?
*I have no idea what year Flashdance actually came out.
