The Humor and Life, in Particular Web site |
R.I.P.
I've never been one to have a toned and sleek, well, anything! I've gotten used to the things that us chubbies do to protect ourselves – like not wearing a skirt without pantyhose or biker shorts so as to not ignite the garment into flames as our thighs rub together, or spending oodles on make–up so that others will continue to tell us that we "have a pretty face", and even avoiding certain materials like satin, spandex or anything with a tapered leg. I can do that – easily. I dress to minimize the maximum and maximize the minimums. I have, in the last few years, perfected the art of dressing for impressing – chubbies style.
Which brings me to my point. I don't think I can do it anymore. What brought me to this conclusion? Well, I would say it would have to have been when my gi–normous posterior split the back of my pants wide open. Like my backside was struggling to free itself from the constraints of a pair of plus–sized pants. And in there lies the irony.
I could blame the pants. In fact, I noticed as I was putting on my $80 Liz Claiborne Tape Measure Expensive For No Freakin' Apparent Reason Pants that the hem had fallen out of the back of the left cuff after only one washing. So, I could site faulty craftsmanship. Only... this doesn't exactly sit well in my befuddled brain since the other day, in my office restroom, I kept seeing something out of the corner of my eye while washing my hands. Convinced that someone was in there with me, I turned my head ever so slightly and jumped.
I had caught sight of my bobbing behemoth butt in the full–length mirror. It was the most frightening thing I've ever seen. So, I sit in my comfy office chair and decide not to blame the helping of stuffed cheese I had for dinner, and not to place fault with the child laborers of Liz Claiborne, but instead I will place blame where it is just deserved...
With the attorney who insisted that my job as receptionist included STRAIGHTENING THE FREAKIN' RUG!
©Holly Shivel
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Holly lives in the little town of Huntington, WV, which can be located on a map in that it looks like a zit on the side of the nose of the State Capitol. She lives in a nice subdivision that resembles Stepford and constantly rebels against the perfection of this neighborhood by intentionally killing off her shrubbery and by making sure her lawn is never mowed. Holly is married to a wonderful man and fights for bed space with Phoebe, their temperamental, nutritionally challenged Himalayan. Although she has never been officially published, she enjoys writing in her massive amounts of leisure time at her mind–numbingly boring job as a legal receptionist.
She documents this time, both for prosperity and for the heck of it at her website: Click HERE.
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©Margie Culbertson
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