I am Susannah Sugarbaker.
I just mean that lately I’m so fat and old and past the glory days when I won prizes for throwing an on-fire baton into the air, on stage at the Miss Peach Cobbler pageant.
And yet I still get as dramatic and hysterical as a young, pretty girl is given the right to be. Like this morning, I wanted to wear a new dress, but then I put it on and saw that it showed cleavage, like half the tops in my closet do because, hello, you can’t be my size and not show cleavage in any normally v-necked item. But last time I wore a dress that showed cleavage, one of my (older, female) coworkers said my dress was so pretty, all I needed was a scarf to cover my cleavage.
Oh, my word. Breasts on display. We mustn’t tempt the men, now, no, no, no.
And I’m being hypocritical now, because in the past I’ve written ugly words about women who come to work dressed sexily, wondering what they’re trying to pull. And, yet, at the same time, I feel unfaired-upon, as if I should be allowed to go ahead and show my boob overspillage, seeing as how I would never use it to get promoted, anyway.
But still. First I put on the new dress, then I became angry at the thought of not being free to wear my new dress. Then I put on a new blouse and found that it showed cleavage, too. Same with the blouse after that, even though I wear that one to work all the time. After that, we got into Needs Ironing territory. Then I said, “Screw this,” and put the new dress on again. Then, right before it was time for me to leave without being late, I changed into an old dress that was completely cleavage-free. Annoyed but inoffensive, deprived but safe, I went to work whistling a merry, merry tune.
(Never mind that, no matter how early I leave the house, I can’t get to work earlier than 8 AM. If I leave thirty minutes early in the hopes of having time to buy a lox bagel for breakfast, you can count on some stupid bastard having a wreck on the freeway right in front of me, undoubtedly as a result of two stupid people talking on their cells and not paying attention.)
So then I get to work and proceed to have quiet panic attacks about any number of non-work-related things, including the way I look and the goals I’m not acheiving and, yes, of course, how fat I’ve gotten.
And only Susannah Sugarbaker is so fat, yet worries so much about how she looks, and wears so much eye makeup in order to attempt to strike a balance. And I wish I wasn’t that way, except when I go home to Major Dad, who is very nice to me and helps me to stop worrying.
Except that I’m blonde now. Did I saw that? My hair has become short and blonde. So I don’t exactly look like Delta Burke, after all. Also, if I were her, I wouldn’t put my name on such a cheap lingerie line. But sometimes I feel like her, when I put dark eyeliner on my big, old body in the morning.
It’s almost Halloween.
What are you going to be? I might be Red Riding Hood, if I’m anything at all. I might stay home that weekend and be myself so I don’t have to worry about cajoling any babysitters. Either way, though, I’ll stand in my doorway and pass out candy on Halloween night. I’m excited about that. I haven’t been able to do that in years.
I want to visit France.
I want to go someplace where the people care about food. It would be a nice break from a place where you have to drive 20 miles to get a lox bagel. Unless…
Fellow Houstonians, most of y’all have guessed which suburb I moved to. Tell me, if you know and if you please, where I can get a bagel with lox, out here where I’m at.
