apples and pears

wrechedme I am short waisted, and believe it or not, petite.  Petite, although I always feel tall.  Petite is about proportion, not height.  You so didn’t know that.  Being short waisted means I’m all legs.  It also means every single top, dress, or suit I wear has to be altered because the back always gaps.  Hey no problem, I’m at a dressmaker’s place.  That’s why there are alterations.

Who is going to alter my back fat?  Who is going to fix me?  Is there a seamstress in all the world who can help me?   When Fattso asks does this dress make me look fat, all I can answer in response, “no you make you look fat.”  Not at all a good time.

Do you mind Bill?  I’m in a fitting room.
“Hey Hey Hey.” Fat Albert is all I hear.  At least I have great breasts, but who’s going to notice in this demure separate?  Oh, you didn’t know this either.  Ill-proportioned girls purchase “separates.”  Think size 12 bottoms and size 2 tops for the bowling pin bodies.  They can’t wear dresses, so now they make separates.  They’re separates all right, separating my body into quadrants.  Bulge on the bottom, bulky in the middle, and floppy on top.  Sounds like sundae toppings.  I need a drink.

I’m a pear.  Hourglass figure yes.  But I’m still a pear.  Though, I’d rather be a pear than an apple.  Whoever decided to name heavy on top women apples should be castrated.  Of course it was a guy.  So let’s face it, the dress cuts too high, no cleavage.  Why bother with strapless if you can’t work the cleavage?  Demure.  Demure.  Oh dear god, Demure.  It’s a wedding.

Now I’m going down to the meatpacking district, where I belong.