When Belts Go Bad
Being bullied and assailed by your accessories? I’ve got you
I feel bad about my waist. One minute it was there, and then it was gone, washed away I’m sure by the Chardonnay I insist I can consume without consequences.
But I used to be able to drink and eat whatever I want! I cry to the rolls that have taken up residence around my middle. The rolls don’t respond.
But my belts do.
Bitchy little things. I hear them whispering every day when I get dressed.
Which barely-covers-her-front-butt shirt will she select today? They taunt. Ah, she’s reaching for the leopard print again. As if spots will blind onlookers to that belly. But wait — it’s in the wash! Now what will she do? Will it be the long black tee shirt? The long blue tee shirt? Holy shit. She’s rifling through Rob’s stuff. That must be some bloat!
I hate my belts. I hate looking at them, on the shelf, collecting dust, reminding me of the days I could wear them. And I really hate that no matter what I reach for, they have something to say.
Exercise gear? Lord please, not Lycra!
Skinny jeans? Fat chance!
The audacity. Don’t these mouthy fashion-musts appreciate that, thanks to my waist’s obliteration, they’re on…
