The Big Girl's Guide to Buying Lingerie

3. CELLULITE = NO THONGS

I sighed into my coffee and replayed my previous night’s coughing fit as if it had been the winning touchdown in the last three seconds of the Super Bowl.  Slow-Mo.

As punishment I woke up early and subjected myself to another round of Pilates From Hell.  Though I doubted they’d do much good after yesterday’s cookie binge.  My last cookie binge, I might add.  Never ever again would a Milano pass my lips or darken my cupboard!

After the previous night’s phone call, which had left me shaken, I’d thrown them all away and carried the trash to the curb, so I couldn’t change my mind.  I’d lain in bed all night nursing a sore scratchy throat, staring at the ceiling and wondering what I’d gotten myself into.  Dear Lord, I had a date with Robbie!

I’d talked to him on the phone, for heaven’s sake!

Burrowing in the mattress, I sighed again, unable to keep a smile off my face.  He sounded even yummier than his emails, but thanks to my self-imposed exile, I had no friends to talk me down from the chandelier.  Except Chrystine, and I knew what she’d say: Get some for me, while you’re at it!

No sleep hadn’t helped matters.  Shortly before three I’d woken up hot and sweaty, all tangled in my sheets and gasping for air.  After a quick shower, I’d checked my mail, wondering if he were home yet.  He wasn’t, but did I go back to bed?  No! 

Half asleep and more than a little sexually frustrated, I sat and typed him this long e-mail about my blues club dream.  I’d expected to find a reply laughing at me or worse, canceling our date when I checked in next.  I should have known better.  Instead I got this:

Nice to see you listen to me <grin>.  You bring the black dress, I’ll bring the hands.  Now go back to bed and dream of me some more.

If only he knew I’d dreamed of him all night.  I was still so flustered over the events of the last twelve hours and hung over from lack of sleep, I hadn’t bothered to answer his e-mails.  Instead, I’d headed downstairs and cooked myself breakfast.

Even eating on the back porch, surrounded by my miniature garden hadn’t helped calm me down.

On exercise-weak legs, I carried my cup and plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs back inside, rinsed the plate and refilled my coffee cup. 

I dragged myself upstairs to the office, wincing at every step.  My stomach ached from those stupid Pilates, but more importantly, I had nothing to wear.  Nothing!

Everything from my country club, size ten days were long past zipping or buttoning or snapping.  Let alone pulling up.  Which left me with a huge dilemma. 

Where do fat chicks buy sexy clothes? 

More importantly, did they even make anything that didn’t look like something my great-grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead in--a problem I’d encountered more than once while shopping for work clothes.  Considering my great-grandmother probably wore crinolines and pantaloons, that wasn’t saying much. 

I spent the morning hunting all over the internet for something local since I wasn’t stupid enough to buy anything without trying it on first.  The only place I found was closed on Sundays, and the clock was ticking.  I could see Alice’s rabbit from Wonderland tapping his foot and twitching his ears.

Horror of horrors, I also saw a trip to the mall in my future.

After a trip to the grocery store, I slipped into the beauty supply place next door and ten minutes later I emerged with five different shades of polish, files and everything else I’d need to spruce up my nails.