Plaid sausage.

So, I have this one dress. It's tailored, work appropriate, and makes me look sharp. When I wear it, I'm passable as a real life grown-up. As a *coughcoughcough*-year-old who is frequently mistaken for a high schooler (or maybe college freshman), that's really saying something. I love this dress.

And sometimes I hate it. 

Here's the thing about fitted, tailored clothing. Anything fitted is always just 5 pounds or an especially heinous period away from being uncomfortably, unflatteringly tight. Being that this particular frock is a sensible taupe (with subtle plaid detailing), when I wear it whilst toting more water weight (or cookie weight) that I care to, I risk looking like a bit of sausage stuffed into a casing (with subtle plaid detailing). 

I want to be fair to sausage. Generally, I have very positive feelings about sausage. After all, pork is the other white meat--the TV commercials assured me. I really enjoy a good breakfast casserole or a lasagna bolstered by the delicious aroma and flavor of some ground up pig. A link sausage pairs perfectly with pankcakes and too much syrup. The best breakfast place in town serves biscuits and sausage gravy that are so good--no, I did not slap my Mama.  But they were served at our evening wedding. (Breakfast for dinner, and the people who love it. Another post for another time.) And yet, my desire to eat sausage is directly disproportionate to my desire to resemble a sausage. 

Woe betide me on the days I put on my dress and risk suffocation via manual strangulation of the lungs by way my ribs closing in on them. Untold joy!, when I put it on and it zips up and I feel like I could give Joan a run for her Mad Men money. 

Just kidding. I could never give her a run for that AMC megabank. But isn't it nice to feel so sassy?

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