What a traumatic 3 hours I’ve just had … we are off to the wedding of my best friend’s son tomorrow which is a blessing and curse in itself, since it’s wonderful to have had a friendship that has lasted that long and knowing this lovely groom since birth but how did I get to be this bloody old, surely this can’t be true etc etc.
Anyways I have my exquisite outfit all picked out, ankle grazer trousers, a gorgeous sparkley top coupled with fabulous high heels and handbag all in all a totally cute 50’s styled outfit and I love it. Well I did love it until I tried it on when I got home tonight. I have put on so much weight over the Christmas holidays, blue January and beyond that the pants give me a fucking camel toe! Disgusting, how can I embarrass my self and my friend by turning up with my vag looking like a giant yoyo – and I can assure you there’s nothing 50’s about that apart from my chronological age!
I have completed a high intensity aerobic class in the lounge and skipped dinner but let’s be honest is it really going to make any difference, no absolutely none and tomorrow I will still be left with a even-toed ungulates hoof down the front of my pants – emergency wardrobe rethink required.
I hadn’t allowed for this type of fat eventuality and therefore have no contingency plan in place to for an alternative outfit and no time to buy one. I was under the impression that I had been reasonably reserved in the calorie intake department over the Christmas holidays and gloomy January but the trousers tell a different fatter story.
Husband has not been particularly helpful in light of this wardrobe emergency, his suggestion was that I don’t stand up for the whole affair and spend the entire time sitting at a table with a well positioned tablecloth over the offending area. I am wondering if the constant rain has diluted his brain cells, everyone knows that weddings are a place where very little sitting and lots of mingling and dancing takes place, no place for the camel toe to hide or be disguised!
The bigger decision is; do I go whole hog and convert to elasticated waistbands from hereon until my dying day or save my money and have everything from the waistdown lipsuctioned, like a Hollywood diva with a designer vagina? Oh the shame of it all.