I fear I am going mad.
The fashion world is making all clothing styles smaller than usual. My washing machine seems to be shrinking everything else — even those items I’ve never washed.
I hear footsteps in my bedroom. My clothes want to go back in the closet — not simply because I stretch them to distraction. They whisper about my fickleness, and they take it personally. They are not wrong when they talk about me forgetting them whenever I purchase something new that does not cut off circulation.
It is true, I can love my outfit and not be seen without it for weeks; but alas, as soon as another catches my fancy and fits my fanny, the others no longer exists in my memory.
Hello, My name is Jan and I am A CLOTHES SLUT.
At this moment, a sailor outfit wants out. It claims white is not my color and it is quite militant about that. I have pleaded and cajoled but I know the rage it is experiencing is really from neglect. Aside from the fact that I just bought a big-boy combat shirt at an army surplus store and I am blinded by love for this khaki cookie, the sailor blouse is a size 6. I have not been a size 6, well, since I was six!
I will loan it to my petite friend as a foster outfit — to live with her until I am able to use kale as my primary food source.
There is also noisy hostility coming from my neglected clothes. The rustling is deafening. Thus I am sleepless with My Pillow, Your Pillow and His as well.
In addition, my apparel falls off the hangers or plays hide and seek when I am in a hurry.
Fortunately, I am now seeing a clothing counselor.
Dr. Plink, the shrink, (why they are called that I’ll never know since I am the same size since I began therapy) suggested I go on a journey to find myself. I packed my shirt and left a note for the clothes. I was on my way to me-land.
Just a footnote here that you may already know. Television makes us appear 10 pounds heavier. I have three.
Thirty pounds of an optical illusion of fake fat. Still, I hopped a train for Katemoss Mountain to find answers … and maybe a cupcake.
So, goodbye for now pantyhose. We have been estranged for years since your constant complaining, begging for mercy over the one-size-fits-all label, and jealousy because I started going commando. All caused by your ever present stretchy down-to-my-knees-baggy crotch. Someday I shall return as a lovely bikini babe when swimwear is designed for XXXL. I shall always remember and hope you do too, that the bigger the figure the more there is ...
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