At what point do you make a change? When do you say to yourself “You know what – I am not going to go and buy the next size up” It happens in increments, it is not an overnight development, it is sneaky and of your own doing. The “it” of course is weight gain. Almost all of us experience it except for the fanatical, oh I wish I were one of them, with Lorna Jane active-wear in bright look at me colours. Jealousy is no fun, I just sound unpleasant, or bitchy you decide.
It is all about choices, I am free to eat, or to not eat dense, diabetic calorie fuelled food. I am responsible for my size, but I won’t take ownership quietly I am going to whine about stuff, in fact I am going to spend a lot of time blaming others for my giant love handles.
Let me start with my very good friend Michelle Bridges (not that she knows), I have supported her and her business venture, I have bought several workout outfits, DVD’s, because that is what friends do. What friends however, do not do, is to create smaller sized shirts and tag them with the same size despite their being a significant shortage of material. To do so, could cause potential harm as I can confirm.
It was a regular Wednesday afternoon, I finished work, and I realised I had forgotten my clothes for softball training. Instead of driving home to pick up said clothes I ducked into Big W. I found a black t-shirt size 14 in Michelle’s fitness apparell range, I didn’t try it on in the changing room, I am a size 14 why would I? This decision would prove to be fatal – almost.
I raced down to the car in the undercover carpark, sat in the driver’s seat and proceeded to change out of my work shirt into my new size 14 t-shirt. It is at this point that the situation becomes dire. I have thrown my work shirt onto the passenger seat. My new purchase I pull it on, it is tight across my chest, dangerously so. I pull the shirt up and over my breastage, and it is at this point that I am stuck. I am trapped within the shirt, my hot pink bra and its contents on full display to passers-by. I wiggle, I squirm, I wriggle I desperately try not to jiggle, this is so embarrassing, I am trapped in cotton.
I can’t get my head out, my arms are stuck above my head, my watch is caught somewhere. So this is the situation I can’t pull the shirt back down, nor can I take it off. I can’t call anyone to help, my mobile is in my handbag on the passenger floor, which I can’t reach. I am indecently exposing myself to the general public, on the upside no one can see my face, but any good citizen worth their detective salt would not be perturbed by this technicality, the number plate is there in full view just like the hot pink DD cups.
I am stressing out- how is this going to end? With a pair of scissors presumably. But when? How long will I be trapped here in the driver’s seat, of my own car, in the-don’t-shot-me-position? Where will help come from? If I was on my way to the shops, and I passed a car with an obvious female occupant in the front seat, wriggling around, her face and arms unseen in the air, would I stop? There is no point in hypotheticals right now. This is serious, I am sweating, I am unquestionably stuck, and the novelty, if there ever was one, has officially worn off!
I start to giggle, oh no this is not good. In time of stress, or physical pain laughter is recommended it helps with releasing endorphins, but right now, it is making me jiggle which is making me laugh harder, why did I not wear a sports bra?
What are my options?
Move the car seat back- can’t reach the lever. Open the door can’t reach the handle. Oh no… the only thing I can think of is the car horn, my head can reach the steering wheel. Oh no this would only be used in an emergency. Ok Amie, at what point is this little scenario you’ve got going on here not an emergency?
I am not keen for the horn option. I will relax, gather my strength and then make one all mighty attempt to free myself from the un-giving Bangladesh cotton. I count to 5. Then with absolute no Houdini style, I am free.
Triumphant, in the simple joy of having my arms by my side, I sit. A man and his child walk pass, shocked, terrified at my lack of decency I quickly duck down my head hits the horn. How much can a Koala bear?
With my work shirt safely back on, I take the alleged size 14 shirt back upstairs. This shirt should have charges laid against it, aggravated assault, or deprivation of liberty. What is my story going to be when I return this to the returns desk? Your t-shirt just tried to kill me! No that would make me look a tad crazy.
Now, I don’t want to go all cynical here- but I think Michelle is not playing nice with others. She is tricking me into thinking that I have put weight on, by using crafty labelling magic. She is not alone, all the big brand stores do it. Why?
What do they hope to achieve? Perpetuating negative self-belief and body image. Mission accomplished.
“Excuse me, I just need to exchange this shirt, please”
“Was there a problem?”
“No, not really, I just saw my life flash before my eyes”.