In Which I Discover The New Blogger Font Sizes And Receive A Chinese Dress

When it comes to body-image issues, on a scale of 1 to 10--a 1 being "So Issue-Free I've Even Grown To Love My Back Fat" and a 10 being "So Anorexic That When I Get Very Hungry I Allow Myself To Lick Advil"--I am about a 5. 

A 3 on a good day. 

A 9 and 1/2 whenever I go to the New York Sports Club in Soho and stand too near a naked model in the locker room.  (Don't worry.  I have stopped exercising all together in order to avoid this problem.)

But, all in all, I feel curvy and sexy 90% of the time.  And, for a girl who at one point in her life chewed donuts and then spit them out to get the taste but not the calories, I'd say I've come a long way. 

Though one could argue that there was really nowhere to go from The Chewing/Spitting Out Phase, but up.

Anyway.

There are two exceptions to my new "I'm Twenty-Five Now And Tired Of Pretending That Tasti-Delite Tastes Like Real Ice Cream" Healthy Body Image.  

My.

Thighs.

I hate them. 

If they were a color they'd be puce.  If they were a subject, they'd be Advanced Algebra/Trig.   I hate them so much--are you ready for this--that if my thighs were running for President in this year's election, I would vote Bush. 

*Gasp*   

Yes.  I hate them that much. 

Which means that, unless I'm forced to lift up my skirt and kick off my heels because a GIGANTIC FUCKING SLIMY SCUTTLING HALF-ROACH HALF-SPIDER BEAST MONSTER IS RUNNING AFTER ME WITH A PARTIALLY DEVOURED HUMAN BODY HANGING FROM ITS GAPING MAW...

...you will never see my legs above the knee.

And even then, its maw better be gaping and it better have a full-on scuttle, not just some weird could-be-a-scuttle, could-be-a-straightforward run.  Because a full-on scuttle is terrifying, but a partial scuttle/partial run is just kind of awkward looking, and maybe even a little funny.

Bottom Line: Every skirt or dress I own was purchased because it shows exactly as much leg as I am comfortable showing.  No more.  No less.  Period.

Enter: David.

Enter the fact that David is blinded by lust. 

Couple that with his constant need to bring me surprises....add a recent trip to Hong Kong, and... Voila!  You have the shortest, most form-fitting white silk Chinese dress ever known to man, currently hanging in my closet, where it takes up almost no room at all, because it's basically the size of a scarf or a mitten.

Now.  Before the comment box gets filled with bitter notes from librarians in the Midwest telling me to be grateful for his kindness, let me be clear: 

IT IS A BEAUTIFUL DRESS, AND I LOVE THAT HE BOUGHT IT FOR ME.

I love that he bought it for me, and I love that the dress that he bought me is form-fitting and sexy.  And, I might add, I love that it's a size "small."  I love that--standing in the shop where he purchased it--he thought long and hard about me and my body, and the word that seemed most appropriate to describe my physical being was:

small. 

David is a Superhero Genius.

Even more lovely, is the fact that this small dress fit.  Because you have no idea how stressed I was when I saw the "S" on the tag, and envisioned myself struggling into the dress--which he, of course, insisted I try on--only to find that it ripped, or wouldn't zipper, or, even worse, got stuck somewhere mid-hip, unable to stretch across THE VAST EXPANSE OF MY THIGHS. 

But, it fit.  It FIT!  It looked horrible.  But, it FIT!

As I stared into the mirror in my bedroom, aghast at how much leg this lovely but SHORT dress exposed, I thought the following:

"My thighs are like huge sausages." 

 Then I thought, "Hey.  Well.  So we'll have a good laugh.  He'll see me in this beautiful but Oh-my-GOD-so-short dress and understand why it is that my sausage-thighs have never seen the light of day.  He'll tell me that he thinks I'm sexy and perfect, and that, when I wear the dress for him in the privacy of his apartment, it will drive him wild."

With those thoughts in mind, I entered the living room. 

So.

You know those cartoon scenes when the Tazmanian Devil sees Bugs Bunny dressed up as a female Tazmanian Devil, and he doesn't realize it's just Bugs with a wig, and he spins around a lot, and his jaw drops to the floor, his pupils turn to hearts, and his ears make steaming, honking noises?

Well, David did that.

"He's just being nice," I thought, sure that some comment about wearing the dress for him... alone...later that night...in his room, was going to follow.

"When I come to stay next month, I'll be wearing this when you come home from work," I purred, trying to give us both the opportunity to silently acknowledge MY ENORMOUS THIGHS.

"No way," he said.  "You look too good.  When you wear that dress, I'm taking you out."

On the one hand: FUCK. 

On the other hand: Huh.   If he really did think I looked stupid, I'd given him the perfect opt-out option.  And still he insisted that I looked amazing.  How 'bout that?

David is a Superhero Genius, But He Also Has Very Bad Eyesight.

Later, after he had left and I was alone, examining the dress from every angle and wondering if maybe stilts would make my legs look longer,  I suddenly realized that I have only one real viable option.  If I'm going to have to show my stumpy legs in public at some later date with David, I'll have to practice walking around in public in the dress, without him.

So, to that end, this Sunday evening I will be grocery shopping in Park Slope wearing the highest high heels I can find, and my uber-short, lovely white Chinese dress. 

You should all come out and cheer me on.