Pretty, sweaty piggy
Summer in New York is not kind to fat chicks.
Humidity brings out our inner Chaka Khan (just the hair, not the badass awesome singer aura).
Spanx are impossible to get up. Or down.
Makeup is impossible to wear, as our super soaker sweat glands ensure anything on our forehead melts after 20 minutes, dripping like burning agony into our eyes.
While I would normally retreat, letting cruel summer reign mercilessly over me, today I staged a coup. I wore a festive dress that looked like Monet threw up on me, but rocking the bright colors and sashayed my day away. Much props were given, and happily accepted.
This evening, a somber wake necessitated a wardrobe change, and on came a simple linen shift.
At the end of the evening, a friend (not close, but well-regarded) told me that I always seemed so well dressed, with good taste. Without thinking and – scarily – without irony, I replied, “I dress for comfort, so I feel good in my body. I guess that looks good on me.”
It could have been victory enough, however vain, for someone else to recognize me for looking good, despite the 50 extra pounds and the hyperhidrosis.
It was even better to see it in myself.
Summer in The City: 0, Big Bertha: 1