Shop of Horrors

I pondered, “Do they make bikini tops in 34 long”? Glancing over my shoulder, it became obvious my glutei were destined for the Rose Parade. A swimsuit graced with miniature flowers blossomed into a gigantic floral float when it stretched across my derriere. The tiny spider vein on the back of my leg now resembled the tattoo of a freaking tarantula. I debated, “Were these reflections an illusion created by warped carnival show mirrors, or had some devilish stranger robbed me of my youth?”

As I exited the hallowed halls, the poised attendant asked me if I had any luck. I held up my favorite suit and begged her, “tongue-in-cheek,” to please put it on hold for at least two months. By then, I was positive ingesting a few shakes of Slim-Slow would exorcise my sluggish metabolism and allow me to lose ten pounds for a perfect fit! An entourage of men dressed in little white suits greeted some of the less fortunate. The Gemini twins were having a heck of a time limbo-ing in their straight jackets. Ms. Hallelujah was on her knees praying the credit card company would approve the quarter-yard of spandex she wished to purchase. The sobbing woman was on her cell phone pulling money from a 401K account for an immediate consultation with a plastic surgeon. It was mind-boggling how a woman’s psyche could be drastically altered, bearing witness to the hidden truths unlocked behind a dressing room door.

I escaped from the shop of horrors empty handed, but with my dignity in tact. Regardless of my size or shape, I refused to be held hostage by an anorexic standard of beauty embellished in spandex and forced into a regimen of Slim-Slow. Thankfully, my Creator adorned me in original couture from the fabric of my being. My seams are sewn from the inside out. Truly a perfect fit! This summer, I will let it all hang out, chuck the tequila and just eat the worm!