|They all love me, even if I hate them.|
So last weekend Mom and I busted into the mall, pushed past droves of children waiting to see Santa, scurried past the stage of tweens dancing to "Party in the USA," (WTF?) and walked into the store to pick out my annual Christmas wardrobe.
I brought a pile of pants with me to the dressing room wanting to have more than four pair in regular work rotation. I tried them on. A little bit of pulling at the hips; next size. Now they're sitting on my hips, drag on the floor like I'm a child playing dress up, and still pull at the hips. Try on a pair of jeans the same size as what I wore into the store and I can't even get my leg all the way into them.
I cuss, get an unapproving look from Mom, who assures me that the pants are obviously made for freaks, and we move on.
Next store. Same size as the last store don't button, same size as I'm wearing into the store, not a prayer. Mom brings in the next size up; they fit, even in length. Oh, they're the "curvy" fit in "ankle length." I look at Mom. "They may as well call these the "short, fat girl pants."
She laughs. I scowl.
So we bought a bunch of tops and the pants for the short, fat girls (apparently me), and walked out, my self-esteem battered. As we walked through the department store on the way back to the parking lot we stared at the shoes. Glorious shoes. Rows and rows of shoes that only vary half a size in any direction, no matter where they're from. Shoes that don't make me look fat, or feel bad about myself. They will never look better on another girl because she's skinnier or has a smaller butt. They won't sit in the closet and mock me because they no longer fit, or randomly shrink in the dryer and become fit for a doll.
Shoes love me. For always, no matter what. Even if I do have an extra cookie and can't fit in my pants.