well. i am here to announce to the world that i pulled out a semi-retired pencil skirt yesterday, one that i haven’t worn in so long, i forgot that i had it. i held it up and looked at it and i thought—i should give this away, i can’t fit into this thing. and then i thought, what the heck, try it on just this once. i stepped into it and lo and behold—it slid right over my hips like it never got stuck there EVER, fastened it without having to suck my stomach in or hold my breath, watched the fabric gather loosely where my belly was supposed to be sticking out, and fold in on itself. and here’s the kicker: i could walk around in it without feeling any kind of constriction whatsoever. i immediately took it off and did the snoopy happy dance in my bra and panties, which ended in me letting out a real live field holler, something akin to a rebel yell actually, the likes of which have never before been heard in these here yankee parts, because there are simply no cows or root hogs to call home in harlem. no, not one.
and that is the end of my “skinny clothes” story. or the beginning, depending on which way you look at it.