Is he my friend or does he pity me, like she said? Jealousy over other girls, angry at myself for feeling something for someone like him, and hurt that he might not care consumes me until I fall into a fitful sleep. My dreams coming in like an episode of Cheaters.
I wake to the alarm on my phone, groggily I shuffle to get some coffee. The dreams from last night plaguing my mind. Picking up my potion bottle to add my daily dose, I glance to the second bottle. The one the lady said would show true intentions. Picking it up, I roll it around in my hand, an idea forming.
If I give this to Kohl, will he reveal why he’s really hanging out with me? Do I honestly want to know? Would he consider using this a violation?
Shaking my head, I set it back on my desk. I’m going to trust my instincts and trust that Kohl is legit. Plus, there is a little voice in the back of my head begging me to keep things as they are. Getting dressed quickly, I grab my purse and make my way, via Uber, downtown to Mirage.
The storefront is glitter and sparkles. The word Mirage over the door lit up with twinkles, shining in the sun. Headless mannequins in the window showcase glorious elegant dresses with jewels and trains. A jingle, announces my presence when I enter the door. A woman, maybe in her fifties, is behind the counter. She’s elegant in a cream-colored pencil skirt suit. Adorned with diamonds on her fingers, a Rolex watch on her wrist and expensive stilettos on her feet. I’m not knowing with fashion but this lady screams sophistication.
Her smile is warm when she greets me, “Hello, hello; you must be Tensanne.”
“Uh, yes. How did you know?”
“Your young man described you well,” she winks. “Come in, come in. I’m Mrs. Brandt. Let’s get started,” she beams, taking my hand, leading me back to a room full of mirrors.
“My young man?” I question, cringing at my reflection surrounding me.
“Yes, dear. The attractive young man who came to buy your dress said you were gorgeous, with amazing curves and wonderfully long legs. His exact words were “Baby’s got back.”
A laugh burst from my lips from his description and the elegant way Sir Mix-A-Lot’s lyrics come from her lips. Feeling my blushing from my head to my toes, “Kohl said that?” I ask.
“Yes, he’s very sweet on you. Now, do you know what kind of dress you would like?”
I stagger for a moment at her comment. Hope blooming inside that he might be ‘sweet on me’.
“I’ve never worn a real dress.”
“Never?” she gasps.
“I’m more of a yoga pants kind of person,” I shrug, fidgeting with the bottom of my t-shirt.
Crinkling her nose, “Those pants are the worst invention ever. Shapeless, stretchy, wastes of fabric. Now, what size are you?”
Shrugging off her assessment of yoga pants, I briefly study my body, “I’m not sure, maybe a size eighteen?”
Reaching for a tape measure, she wraps it around my waist then slides it down to my hips, “My darling girl you are way off. Your waist is a size twelve and your hips a size fourteen. What size jeans do you wear?”
“I don’t own a pair of jeans.”
Eyes wide. “No,” she huffs, “You’re joking? You wear these shapeless pants all the time? No wonder you don’t know what size you are. You must buy yourself a great pair of jeans. Jeans can accent your legs, your backside, and your small waste. You must get a good quality pair to fit correctly.”
Taking a step back, she analyzes me, walking around me. She completes the circle, beaming, “I know the perfect dress for you,” she gushes rushing through a door in the back of the room.
With mirrors surrounding me, I take stock of what I see. My shirt pulled up above my waist where she measured me. Peering very hard at the woman in the reflection. My eyes more judgmental than anyone else. I see, for the first time, a person that is not repulsive. I see the extensive length of my legs, long and quite toned from the hours I have spent on the elliptical. Glancing at the mirror behind me, I gaze over the shape of my butt. No longer sagging but round and perky. My waist is small and indented at the top of my hips, I still have a soft belly but it’s almost cute, I think. Up, my eyes move to my chest, it has decreased some in size but still a huge mountainous lump on my upper body. Though, with the right bra, I think I might like these huge twins.
What I see staring back at me, is me. All of me. I like what I see. The woman staring back at me is a person I’m learning to love. Lumps, bumps and all.
She returns with a template of sorts. It’s a rubberized mold of a dress, kind of like Polly Pocket’s clothes that I played with as a child. The mold opens in the back so it wraps around my body. Remember what Leah told me about their sizes? I wonder why she has a plus size mold.
As she is taking measurements and making notes, I must know how a dress store that caters to the small and petite has something just the right size for me. The non-small and petite. “Mrs. Brandt, are all your dresses out front a size two and below?”
“Yes, why do you ask?” she responds, distracted, busily making notes of dress specifics.
“I’m wondering why it is you only sell ‘on the rack’ dresses so small but you have a plus size mold to fit me. I don’t mean to be rude, but big girls like pretty dresses too,” I murmur picking at my nails.
“It’s true, we cater to
