Okay, I think there might be a new career for me. As a model. No, seriously, I could be a mannequin. I used to hear that a bit when I was in my mid to late teens, because I am slightly taller than average, and back then I was something of a sylph. The other day it became apparent that the book writing lark isn't getting the bills paid as quickly as I'd like, and I might have to take up modelling.
Now, in case you're wondering the genesis of this great epiphany, it was the other day at a local store. My swimming costume is getting a bit chlorine-worn, so I figured being summer and all, it might be time for replacement. Off to the store I toddled, and being realistic, grabbed a Size 14 one-piece from the rack. I personally favour tankinis, but there were none to be seen, and I figured my rashie will hide any flaws (or what the beauty magazines would have us believe are flaws) a one piece would highlight on the elongated torso I possess. Yes, I'm kind of long in the waist, which is why I prefer a tankini style swimsuit to a one piece, which travels northward and cleaves me cruelly twixt my buttocks. They also have a propensity to produce a camel toe on me that looks like said camel is doing the Vulcan salute.
I was feeling very excited about buying a new swimming costume, an errand that often fills women with dread, because someone told me recently I look like I've lost weight. I figured I would look like a hot cougarish MILF in the pretty costume I took with me into the changing cubicle. Like I said, I had grabbed a Size 14 - I try to convince myself I'm a 12, but being the body shape I am, I need all the extra fabric available to not end up being cut in half when I stand.
I drew the curtain and peeled off my clobber, except for my Reg Grundies (we must be hygiene conscious, folks). I stepped into the swimming costume and pulled it up over my legs. The further up my legs the costume was tugged, the more effort it required on my part. Soon I was no longer pulling but dragging the damn thing, kind of like the slaves of Cheops dragging stones to build the pyramids. I performed calisthenics and jumped around a little throughout this procedure, and was grunting with the effort. A passerby would have thought the cubicle contained a pig dining, or maybe Maria Sharapova whacking a series of killer aces.
Satisfied I had my arse in the damnable garment, I dragged it up my ribcage. This was very arduous and provided a more than satisfactory cardio workout. 'Simone,' I told myself, 'You cannot break the laws of physics.' My self advice did not stop my trying. The straps were forced up my arms and onto my shoulders, where they gouged me mercilessly. The top front section of the costume did not cover my bust entirely, and what it did cover flattened, thus forcing a wild comber of side boob, and above boob, and snuggled into the armpits boob, and probably some boob around the back. This is so not a good look.
Miraculously, the jaws of life were not required to extricate me from the costume. I escaped without getting tangled and falling over, and humbly asked the sales assistant for the next size up. There was no next size up. I left the store sans new swimming costume.
As for my whimsy that I could model, it was when I still had the costume on and was regarding the horrific apparition in the mirror. I would have been a fabulous mannequin in a window display. The window of a kosher deli, that is.
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