I spent yesterday bloated as fuck and trying on dresses, because I make terrible decisions.
See, back in early October, Nutty Hubby told me his work would be having a Christmas party and wanted to know if I was interested in going. Not having been to a proper Christmas party in 7 years and feeling somewhat deprived, I immediately encouraged him to RSVP, as visions of sugar plums danced in my head.
“It’s formal dress,” he added, knowing that despite my general hatred of human interaction, I can put up with almost anything if it means I can get all dolled up and strut around in a pretty outfit.
YOU HAD ME AT ‘CHRISTMAS PARTY’ WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING STILL TALKING TO ME GO FUCKING RSVP RIGHT NOW” “Cool,” I replied.
That settled, I resumed stressing about whether we had taken care of everything we needed to do/buy/book before we left for Japan, and completely forgot about the whole party thing.
Until this past Friday, when it wandered back into my head out of nowhere.
“Hey, quick question, what level of ‘formal’ do they mean when they say formal dress?” I messaged Nutty Hubby.
“I’ll check,” he responded.
He returned several minutes later, laughing his ass off.
“Now, bear in mind I specifically asked about long dresses vs. cocktail length, etc. The response I got: ‘Well it doesn’t have to be a gown, just, you know, formal. Picture, if guys are wearing suits, women wear the equivalent.'”
Oh, the kind of dress you’d wear going somewhere with a guy in a suit? Of course! THAT FUCKING NARROWS IT DOWN, DOESN’T IT?
Sigh. Trust a bunch of programmers to make ladies’ evening wear into a binary system.
Luckily Nutty Hubby had access to the photo booth pictures from the previous year’s party, so I was able to stalk his coworkers and their wives and girlfriends and make sure my idea of business formal coincided with theirs.
Then I raided my closet for anything remotely suitable.
Naturally, I came up empty-handed.
“When is this party again?” I messaged Nutty Hubby.
“Hm? Oh, next Saturday.”
God. Fucking. Dammit.
I’d blame NH for the lack of notice, but to be fair he did tell me the date of the party back in October, so I’m just as much at fault here since I didn’t mark the stupid thing down on the calendar right then and there. All the same, a courtesy reminder might have been nice.
And who has a friggin’ Christmas party in the third week of November, I ask you?
People who don’t understand there’s more than two types of dress, I guess.
Anyway, I told NH I’d gone through my closet and couldn’t find anything that fit both a) the dress code and b) me, and that I’d need to hit the mall on the weekend to go frock hunting. Nutty Hubby agreed to come along because he doesn’t mind shopping as long as it’s not for him, and he has a surprisingly good eye for picking out dresses that are my style.
We chose Sunday to go out since we knew neither of us would feel like doing anything on Saturday that didn’t involve lounging around the apartment in our pajamas, but this turned out to be a mistake, because on Sunday Aunt Flo showed up and brought all her bloaty, crampy friends to hang out in my lower midsection.
But hey, what girl wouldn’t want to try on fancy form-fitting garments while feeling like a blowfish with her lady bits in a vice?
I know, omfgHAWT.
We went anyway, because I’m a trooper.
We made our way to the shop where I usually score all my best dresses, and began combing the racks. There was a silvery sweater dress that Bloaty Me was really, REALLY tempted to go for just because it looked comfortable as fuck, but knitwear was definitely too casual so I told Bloaty Me to get a grip and dragged her to the back of the store where they keep the really
uncomfortable gorgeous shit.
In accordance with fashion retail law, 99% of the dresses that fit the style I was going for and looked like they wouldn’t be hideous on me were hanging way up out of reach, so we flagged down the nearest employee to grab my sizes.
And because life is a cruel bitchwhore, of course my size was sold out in the dress I’d had the highest hopes for. “I have a size 2 and a 4,” the sales rep told me after checking the tags. “Would you like to try either of those?”
Oh shit, she’s serious.
“Um, I’m flattered by your faith in my waistline, but while I could maybe squeeze into a 6, I’m pretty sure a 4 is pushing it, to say nothing of the 2…”
“Oh, okay! Well I’ll get those others down for you then.”
I looked at Nutty Hubby and mouthed, “A two? Is she blind?”
He did the wise thing and said nothing. You don’t mess with a hormonal blowfish.
Yes, I did eventually find a dress that was pretty and appropriate and didn’t make me feel like a hippo. And the best part is that thanks to trying it on while gross and bloated, it’s already been pre-approved to handle the food baby I’m inevitably going to be carrying by the end of Saturday’s party. You win this round, Aunt Flo…