this is the voice of irritation

I went with Vannezsa to shop for bridesmaid's dress. This should be a fairly painless procedure, since she left it up to us. Strangely, it's just as horrific when you get to choose.

That was--wow. A very special hell.

Part of it was the sizing, which didn't apply to any planet I know of. The girl with me, who is a freaking size zero she's so small, was in a six, which meant that none of my usual understanding of my own size applied. It was dizzying and terrible for the ego, but worse for the fact that the dresses are not made to be flattering on anyone, even her. I'm sorry, when a girl with a waistline in the low twenties looks weirdly unproportioned, you know something is wrong. I actually liked one floor length blue one, unfortunately spaghetti strapped, but cute, and it actually looked okay on us both, which is saying something. We ended up with a just-above-tea-length a-line one with a halter that shockingly looked really good. We're getting them done in chocolate brown taffeta, for which God be praised is a color that works on pretty much anyone. I can get alternations done to fit better, but the fact that I'm still resisting the fact my cup size is actually a very low C and no longer a B may have something to do with the fact I'm just not comfortable in anything now. I liked B. I was happy with B. The C thing isn't working for me at all and worse, doesn't look it until the bra try-ons start and I stare in horror. Very low C. Like, more a B+. Why is there not a B+?

This is perhaps the first and only time in my life I've considered dieting. The sizing was really, really traumatic. I pulled out pictures of myself in a cheerleading uniform to remind myself of the days I weighed one thirty and looked like a survivor of some sort of famine (my cheekbones weren't just prominent--they looked liposuctioned). It's hideous enough to send me for the bread and cheese whiz. Just--no.

Sometimes, I hate being a girl. I hate this awareness of my body that I can't get away from, no matter how many t-shirts and sweaters I buy and jeans I own. I hate thinking in terms of my body and what it is supposed to be and what it isn't.

It's so tiring.

I also hate my tooth and the fact Tuesday seems very, very far away. And my sister somehow got two of my hydrocodone and I really can't work out how she got them; this time around, I carry them with me or hide them in random places, like under the living room couch or in the car. There's a pretty good chance I left them on my bed to go to the bathroom once.

My mood, let me show you it. I am re-reading Cigarettes by basingstoke to let Fraser lead me back to Zen (well, technically, I suppose Bayliss as well). For some reason, this one is the one I read most in the series.

Comments

[seperis.livejournal.com]

This. Yes. I am so freaking *tired* of it; I can't imagine if I worked somewhere that appearance was more regulated. Luckily, all my jobs, except for the ombudsman, were pretty easy on that, and even in the ombudsman, business casual could be somewhat stretched. I couldn't deal if I had to be more strict.