WHEN YOU LOOK IN A MIRROR, WHOSE YOU DO YOU SEE …
“It’s amazing how good I look even though I weigh more than 350 pounds,” she said to no one in particular.
The stretch pants were more like etch pants, since even the stitches were undoubtedly being etched into the flaccid globules of her pulsating corpulence.
The sports bra that was straining the fabric of time, space and credulity, turned out to be not a sports bra but rather a simple tank top. Perhaps she misunderstood the meaning of the phrase, “tank top,” to mean if you look like a tank, wear this on the top half of your body.
The ragged, dirty bunny slippers she was wearing did
little nothing to add to the image of “looking good” she apparently wanted to achieve.
Even the dirty mirror hanging on the door of the K-Mart dressing room seemed confused as it tried to fit her nearly four foot wide frame into the 18-inch wide mirror frame.
And yet, there she stood. Primping and preening, turning this way then that, and all under the approving nod of her bulbous head.
She pointed at her reflection in the mirror, smiled and said, “You are one hot babe, Miss Mary Mary. Justin won’t be able to keep his hands off of you tonight.”
I didn’t know whether to admire her or feel sorry for her.
After a few minutes of consideration, I decided to admire her. (And yes, I actually did take a few minutes to reach a conclusion about something that was absolutely none of my business.)
I don’t know if she knew just how “ungood” she looked to the “average” person on the street. But if she did, she had apparently decided it didn’t matter.
She was dressing for herself and her man, Justin. And apparently Justin was going to find her to be one hot babe. Anyone else’s opinion was irrelevant.
More power to her.