“Shit, that bad, huh?” I said.
“No, it’s not that,” Jen said. “Barb, you never fit into this dress. There’s no way.”
“No, it used to fit, I just got fatter,” I argued.
“If you gained any weight, I can’t tell. But even so, say you did. Then wouldn’t the rest of your clothes not fit?”
“They don’t,” I whined. “Two weeks ago, I was fastening my bra on the tightest hook. And now, I’m using the middle hook.”
“That’s like half an inch,” said Jen. “This,” she pointed to the dress, “is, like, five inches. If you grew five inches wider, none of your other clothes would fit.”
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “You’re right. You know, when I first tried it on, they said they were having a sale in a week, so I left it at the store. When I went back to pick it up, I didn’t try it on again, I just bought it! I must have had the wrong size in my closet all this time. But now what?”
When Jen suggested I exchange it, my face fell. This dress was from last season. There was no way any stores would still have it. Still, Jen insisted I check, and sure enough, just one iridescent espresso strapless number remained in California, and as fortune would have it, that one dress was in the size I needed, which was two sizes larger than the one I’d been trying to cram myself into. “It’s at the store in Costa Mesa. That’s, like, an hour and a half away,” I said.
Jen, my dear friend, and my handler in David’s absence, smiled at me, shook her head, and said, “Well then, let’s hit the road.” I grabbed the dress and followed Jen to the door. As we belted ourselves in to the Mini, Jen flaunted a mischievous smile.
“What?” I asked her.
“Now that you don’t have to lose 30 pounds this week, I was just thinking after we pick up the right-sized dress, we can go grab a burger and a beer.”
“Rockin’,” I said. As I zoomed onto the freeway, I turned to Jen and flashed the smile of a woman who’d just been liberated.