 |
| The Dangers of Loose Clothing |
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The leather frock that once gently skimmed my curves now choked and squeezed them like some cheap S&M mistress. I hadn’t just gained weight; I gained a full dress size.
It appeared my ten-day Andalusian retreat left me with more than just a relaxed mind; my tummy, bum and thighs had followed suit. The fact that I had to loosen my string bikini on day three should have been a dead cert but the tapas, paella and daily beer o’clock by the pool; not to mention wine o’clock, left me with the kind of excess baggage that would require more than a €30 surcharge to shift.
“I was wondering why you kept saying ‘Si’ when the waiter asked if you wanted your tapas ‘ración’,” mused my friend while I wrestled with a zip that stood between me and my blood circulation.
“I thought ‘ración’ was Spanish for ration,” I offered weakly.
“It didn’t occur to you then that the portions were rather large?”
I didn’t answer. The broken metal teeth in my hand were a clear sign that I needed my own jaw wired...pronto.
The misconception that holidays come with their own weight and wine immunity is swiftly brought to rest when one is forced to don something that is neither a cheesecloth sheath nor a shirred swirly muslin cloak of sorts.
Which reminded me: I still needed something to wear to the cocktail party the following evening. I cast a glance at the bag of holiday laundry still tucked in the corner of the room.
“I wonder if I could pass off that full-length kaftan in the Morrison without raising an eyebrow?”
“Are you high?” enquired my friend glibly; clearly concerned as to the state of my mental health.
“No, not high but given I’m standing here half naked with a broken zip in my hand, I’m thinking I’ve reached an all new personal low,” I blurted tearfully.
Silence.
“Jewellery would be good.”
