Not the post I planned to write

by | Jul 22, 2014 | Little Angie, Little Woes, Little Women | 0 comments

 

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Fucking models that look better in dresses than I ever could. That’s my problem with the world.

I was having a semi-mediocre day. I had a lot to get done and no inclination to do it. My mum came to visit and though that should buy me some time to get stuff done while she hangs with the kids, it never sort of works out like that. She loves to spend time with her grandkids but she likes spending time with me, too. And chewing the ears off brass monkeys.

But I can’t really blame her for my getting nothing done today when the truth is I didn’t feel like doing anything anyway.

And she did offer to hang at home with Zig and Lo while I did school pick-up and school pick-up without extraneous children is a special kind of wonderful.

Thanks Mum.

While I was out I picked up a parcel from the post office. I was pretty anticipatory about the contents within. In fact, I was anticipating it so keenly that I decided to model the wares for my mum. Usually I prefer to do these kinds of things alone, and that way, if I look hideous, no-one else ever has to know. But I thought this was the prettiest dress and because it was a size 10, I even felt slightly confident the issue might be that it would be too big.

Yeah, no.

I bought a dress online for a spring wedding and it’s so lovely and a bit different and it’s base colour is white which as a rule, I never wear because white is very unforgiving to people who have had children or baked goods. Also, I find if your skin tone is actually whiter than the dress, it’s problematic. But whatever, I threw caution to the wind, took a chance.

And now I must pay the price.

At first, I thought the zip wasn’t going to close. Even more mortifying when someone else is trying to close that zip for you. I was sucking in my guts like you would not believe and Mum was gently, gently edging the zipper up. We got there. I breathed out….and knew I was in trouble.

I went to the mirror. Yes, white dresses make white limbs look pudgier. This is just a fact that everyone knows, and I do realise that a lick of fake tan will mostly forgive this ghostly sin. That isn’t really the problem. The problem is that if I had to wear that dress tomorrow, I would feel compelled to suck in my guts all night long – I reckon I’ve done that once before and it really takes the shine off an otherwise fun evening.

Should I have been trying on dresses given my already underwhelmed mood? Probably not. If I toned up a little between now and October would the dress be a perfect fit? Sure. I reckon there’s an inch in it. Maybe shapewear would solve the issue altogether. If all else fails, I can just simply return the dress. I bought it for this reason. It’s 100% returnable, refundable and won’t cost me a cent to do so.

But I like this dress. And not fitting into a dress you really like feels like shit.

But don’t worry. I got proactive. I went straight to the supermarket and bought some salt and vinegar chips.

Proactive.

So now not only am I lower than a snake’s belly (and presumably fatter) but I am so dehydrated I can no longer move my tongue.

Yep.

Oh, and I yelled at the kids for making a mess with their toys but actually, what I was really yelling was:

“I hate winter. I feel fat. My skin is fluorescent. I am so parched. I don’t want to do the dishes. I’m tired. Sometimes I can’t be bothered being your mum. I’m sorry. I’m a fucking lazy bitch. I need to lose 3 kilos before October. I should just return the fucking dress. I’m sorry. I love you. I think I’m messing you up so badly. Please just shut the fuck up and watch television like a zombie because I’m not capable of dealing with anything resembling motherhood right now. I love you. I love you. Please stay away from me for a little while. I’m sorry.”

Oh, god.

Tomorrow is Bren’s birthday. Put your game face on, girl.

 

Hello friends

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I’m Angie!  I mum. I write. I wife. My husband would say this is the correct order.  He’s so neeeedy. I live with my family in Melbourne, Australia, where I complain about the weather for 90% of the year – but I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Except maybe in Lake Como, waving to my neighbours George and Amal each morning.

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