Project 25, Post No. 2: On salad
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I’m currently at my parent’s house, in town for a childhood friend’s wedding. It’s my first wedding as a grownup, where I’ll actually know the bride and groom on a personal level and not just by some loose blood tie.
In preparation for said wedding, I’ve been eating a lot of salad so I can fit nicely into a navy blue dress with a tight waist.
My mother, who still embarrassingly buys all my clothes, presented me today with a flouncy orange dress instead.
“I just thought it was so cute!” she screamed as she shoved it into my arms.
It was. Sharp, geometric patterns. Flattering-looking silhouette. And: pockets.
I immediately ran to my room to try on the frock. In my eagerness, I didn’t realize that the Helmut Lang sheath was about half of the width of my hips and chest. I didn’t realize this unfortunate fact until I was already sheathed within the sheath, in a Chinese finger trap for the torso.
I had somehow managed to wiggle into the dress due to the lubrication created from the velocity with which I flung on the garment combined with the slicking effecting of my sweat (an effect of the 90 degree temperature of Los Angeles).
Being a big girl (in more ways than one, I suppose) I approached the problem like a business plan, complete with a SWOT analysis. The first way to solve the problem, I reasoned, would be to undo myself by peeling myself out of the dress, using the floor as leverage.
And as I wiggled on the brand-new carpet my parents had installed recently, slowly being asphyxiated by a 60’s inspired, totally summery pattern, my vision started to go dark (either with the lack of air going to my brain or because there was black lining on the dress). I wondered, “God, what if I die with a dress with the TJ MAXX tag still on, completely uncovered from the ribs down? Have I lived the life that I want? Will my brother discover me and know what to do?”
I continued to wiggle and writhe, determined to both beat this stupid mod outfit and also live.
“Oh my god, what am I going to wear to this wedding?” I then began to wonder, edging my head from an inside-out shell.
I had conquered the dress, but realized that salad wasn’t enough. It was time to do more.
I may have slayed the orange dragon this time, but what happens when the next dragon isn’t a pretty dress, but a mysterious lump, or an unusually murky X-ray?
Salad wasn’t enough.
I saw death today, and It was discounted designer wear, sitting in a heap on the floor of my childhood room.
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