An Ode

The women I love are fat. I admit it. I like fat people.

Fat people are jolly. Imagine a rake-thin Queen Latifia or a bikini clad Rosie, somethings just aren't meant to be. Overall they are happier. They eat with flare and understand the importance of adding a dash of chocolate shavings to whip cream.

I don't trust skinny people. I imagine that being a "big boned" girl, in amongst a group of rib protrouders, is like being a deer invited to a poachers party. They must be hungry. I would always be wondering if one day, their natural instict to survive would override common sense and they would just bite a big ol' chunk out of my arm.

I have pants. They aren't skinny pants. But to me, they are. They are "my kind of skinny pants". I do wish that they would fit. Pa couldn't care less. He only wishes I would never mention these pants again. His solution is to buy bigger pants. Who cares?, he says, they look the same in a heap on the floor. He is funny.

He knows my affinity for a Mars bar. He buys me king size everytime. Which is really two Mars bars a day. Which is two, too many. I know. I can't help it. They taunt me. Calling my name from that thin wrapper.

I am not like Auntie. She is a stasher. At any given moment, you can go to her fridge or her drawer and find chocolate. She can open a box and eat just one. I can snarf down a box of Queen Anne's Cherries in Walmart and pay for the empty box on my way out.

It has been done. Too many times to count.

They don't fit because I have been holed up in a house all winter eating. Ooooohhhh, the things I have ate. With free access to a fridge and limited outside time, I have become quite the connoisseur with the microwave. (The stove is just too frightening!) Who knew it could do so many things?!? TGIF cheese, artichoke and spinach dip from Superstore Walmart. 3 1/2 minutes, from freezer to table to my butt. On some of the long winter days, I created many smorgasboards to amuse my brain, lovingly cutting shapes out of cheese. A-type personality. I can't help it.

I could never be a housewife. A full-time Mom. Cheers to those who do it. You are amazing to me. I do amuse myself with the thought. I would be Gilbert Grape's mother and they would have to burn down the house because I wouldn't fit out the door.

Anyhow, there was a point here. I went out to buy an Oprah fad. Too much Oprah can make a girl snap. She was marketing, on her show, these amazing, suck it all in, smooth it out, underwear. Not the kind that you show off to your lover or strut around in, mind you, but I thought they might, just might, make my pants fit a little better.

Revolutionary underwear.

If Oprah is revolutionizing the modern world, one pair of underwear at a time, you can count me in, swipe the VISA and sign my name because I have no control over that woman's power.

They are called Spanx. I found them at Winners. At $16.99 per pair, they aren't a steal but if they allow me to zip up my old favourite pants without using a coathanger as leverage, then ring up the sale.

I look at the sizing chart on the back. I KNOWWWWWW, I'm not skinny. But the top of the sizing chart?!? I didn't think things had gotten that bad. This is a product for the masses, so why do that to people? There must be at least a couple people out there bigger than me? It seems like a cruel joke. We make fat people underwear. But not in their size.

I'm a D. D for Depressing. Stop eating junk. Get out an move. Yes. I understand.

But there at the bottom of the scale is the skinny factor. If you are 110 pounds and 5'8" you are an A.

What are they doing purchasing support underwear? If you are 110 pounds and 5'8" and even looking at this product...

You don't need support underwear, you need a support hotline.