I went to the Mall today. I loathe The Mall, it's a circle of hell yet established. (Had Dante known of The Mall while writing Inferno, I am sure he would've developed another level for the monoliths of capitalism.)
I had a mission. I really did. Go in, get out. How naive I was.
I was sucked into Victoria's Secret, like a sexy bee to a sexy flower...this was all before I discovered how sexy I am not. The music was pumping. I was at my own personal rave. Hyped up on what I could be, and those Goddess Angels were all the inspiration I needed.
Elbows deep in sale underwear, fighting the other Sexy Bees for a taste of that lacey flower. That flower that provides the nectar of confidence. I stole away with my new stash of underwear and bolted. Confident and proud of my booty. Horrible pun quite intended.
I ate some Japanese Soba and went home. I was so damn hot, my dress was glued to my body. All I wanted to do was put on something new, crisp, cool, fresh. I picked out an old tee shirt, some cut off's, and laid them on the bed. I poked into that pink tissue paper, threw it aside like it was Christmas morning. The excitement of fresh knickers, compounded by my hard boiled body, was exhilarating!
I pulled out a sunset hued striped boyshort. Size small. This was it! Sweet relief! Angels were singing, Jeff Buckley was crooning Hallelujah, a slice of sunlight was cutting through the window behind me. I felt overjoyed. New underwear!
I bit the tags off with my teeth! Here I go! I shimmied them up, and up, and...oh. The band hit right there. That little bulge, that little loaf of flesh beneath my belly button, and I realized I am no longer a size small. I waited for the ugly, angry tears. They didn't come.
Maybe I am healing, or maybe I really just love Soba noodles. Whatever it is, I didn't cry. I just put on a pair of medium plumb colored boy shorts, and grabbed a glass of wine. Being thin is overrated. Japanese food is contentment. I choose to be content.