So, my end of the semester tidy-up duties are at hand. I had papers and articles strewn about my apartment like a scatterbrained mad scientist. So I'm in OCD mode, labeling file folders, organizing everything and putting it away for future reference.
I'm heading back to my hometown (?) tomorrow. We're having a little Christmas banquet tomorrow, and I thought it would be fun to whip out my old bridesmaid's dress to wear and get all dolled up. Except . . . (record scratch) . . . it doesn't fit anymore!
AARRRGH!
I feel like having a temper tantrum. Like reverting to a 3-year-old, falling out and proceeding to scream and flail about because mommy told me I couldn't have another cookie.
Bridesmaid's dress, get your skinny butt over here right now! Who told you not to fit me anymore? Answer me! I asked you, WHO TOLD YOU NOT TO FIT ME ANYMORE? Did you ask me? I don't think so. No ma'am, you did NOT get permission not to fit me anymore. What was that you said? Oh, that I could still barely get the zipper up? I don't call that fitting, you skinny, shimmering, pool blue rag. Yeah, it might fit if I held my breath all night, but I don't want to pass out, and I would actually like to eat at the Christmas banquet without cutting off the circulation in the lower half of my body. I fit into you just fine three years ago, and just when I want to wear you again you decide to shrink. Bridesmaid's dress, you ain't about that life! You don't want this! Girl, I will cut you. I will snatch off your wig. I will yank out your weave, snap off your press-on nails, call up your baby daddy and tell him to Western Union that child support check to ME! See, you ain't ready for me! Nawl.
I can't even look at that bridesmaid's dress without wanting to fight the air. This. Is. Not. Allowed. To. Happen.
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