No, it's not. But it's related.
In addition to baking fruitcakes, one of my favorite activities is exercising. So for Christmas my spouse bought me a gift certificate to a fancy little fitness/yoga boutique in San Francisco.
Given that I never buy new exercise clothes, I was rather excited. Today, I made my way to the petite shop where I gathered up a generous armful of pants and tank tops, all in size Medium.
I do not know how to describe what happened in the dressing room. Hilarious? Sobering? Horror show?
The clothes were miniature. It was as if a buffalo had stumbled into a boutique for gazelles, a St. Bernard into a shop for whippets. It would not be quite accurate to say I am a size 4, but today I was wearing a size 4 skirt. I checked the label just to be sure. Yes. Size 4. It's a little snug, but I am definitely not a St. Bernard. More like a well-fed labrador retriever.
I stood there gazing silently into the mirror, shocked and perversely fascinated. How are normal people supposed to exercise if exercise shops only sell clothes for people who are already tiny? I briefly considered venturing out and gathering up everything in a size Large or X-Large but it was a small place, the hovering clerk was a young male, and I just sort of knew nothing here was going to work.
I really just need to get the money back and head to Target, or K-Mart. This shop was in a posh neighborhood and trudging back to my car, puzzled and disconsolate, I realized that most the women I passed really did resemble gazelles. Rich gazelles, with Botox, great hairdressers, and big, slouchy leather purses.
Needless to say, I also instantly began a diet. Since leaving the shop I have consumed only watermelon and coffee. I feel more gazelle-like already.
Speaking of labrador retrievers, I took Owen to see Marley & Me. Not as terrible as I had feared, but midway through the film there is a terrifying cameo by the once-svelte Kathleen Turner in the role of an obese dog trainer.
I took that as another sign.