I am standing in Marks & Spencer’s feeling quite lost in the postage-stamp sized sportswear section, feeling my way along somewhere between the racer back workout gear and the yoga pants.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love to shop, really I do. but today, I am feeling well and truly out of my depth. The rack of polo shirts hangs high on the wall, demonstrating to me and to anyone who may be wondering what a
chubby curvy chick like me is doing anywhere in the vicinity of sportswear, that I have precisely four colour options: White, pink, navy, and white with pink stripes.
Clearly I’m spoilt for choice.
“Ugh,” comes a voice from behind me, “you cannot possibly be serious.”
I turn and find my Inner Comedienne perched atop a rack of sweatpants. She is looking dapper today in her vintage clown golf wear, Argyle sweater, massively oversized knickerbockers and all. Her legs are crossed primly, and she swings a studded clown shoe peevishly. “You do realize we are not really golf material, don’t you?” My IC adjusts her floppy cap at a jaunty angle atop her rainbow wig, then makes an avid examination of her gloved hands. She cocks a colourful brow. “I mean, LOOK at you!”
I catch a glimpse of myself on one of the mirrored pillars across the aisle. It’s true. I’ve been going a little heavy on the gravy of late, and this figure, even at its thinnest, is pure hourglass.
As it is, my sands have begun gathering in the middle. I turn this way and that, trying in vain to find a good angle. “Be quiet!” I hiss. “This is hard enough without you reminding me I’m built more for comfort than speed. Plus,” I add, casting my IC a baleful glance, “it was YOUR idea to get HH that golf club membership for our 30th.”
She sniffs. “You’re the one who had a pair of golf shoes sitting unworn for eight years in the closet. It was about time you put your money where your shoes were.”
My Inner Comedienne is correct. I have intended to take up golf, HH’s favourite game, for years.
When we lived in Houston, our house backed onto the sixth fairway. How I loved watching the play. How I longed to participate…
When one is more Jessica Rabbit than Babe Didrikson, the prospect of squeezing into golf clothing is a nightmare! I have been at firm odds with buttonholes and belt loops ever since I began puberty.
Inner Comedienne laughs outright. “Yes, you can!” She says. “But… what about using the driver for a change?”
I frown. “I’ll get to it,” I say huffily. “I’m just a little… busty is all. I’m working on it!”
My IC picks up her glittery golf bag and swings it over her shoulder. Her oversized driver, neon green, stands proudly from its pocket. She pats its huge, round head affectionately, telegraphing in no uncertain terms that SHE is perfectly comfortable using it. She and her driver are one. They are a team.
I have yet to discover baggy clothing…
I glower at my IC and hastily choose three shirts, extra large, knowing full well I will have all the sex appeal of a toaster once I put any of them on. “These will do,” I say. “They’ll HAVE to do. Nobody cares what I look like anymore anyway. You know I’m pushing fifty.”
Inner Comedienne nimbly leaps off the rack of sweatpants and makes her way to the yoga section. “Fine,” she says, fingering the elasticated waistbands of the long row of formless, black jersey. “But I’d love to see you sliding that bootie into a pair of Chinos.”
I blanch. Ohmigosh. Golf trousers. The only things less forgiving than polo shirts are golf trousers… “No,” I whisper, running my hand along a rack of khaki gabardine. I hardly dare touch them. Even size Enormous will never curve its way around all this Bass… “No, no, no…” I am gibbering now. I can feel the darkness seeping in from the corners of my vision. The very thought of slipping into man trousers has brought on both a hot flush and a case of the vapours.
IC rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic!”
(Says the clown in the giant red golf shoes.)
She pulls a pair of yoga trousers from the rack, size Enormous. She starts to chuckle. “Here!” she says, “I’ve found just the ticket!”
I hesitantly approach the yoga section. Yoga, like golf, is pretty much a foreign universe for me. Nevertheless, it is a stretchy universe, and does not require circumscribing my equator with anything resembling a belt.
Still, I am doubtful. “I don’t know,” I say, “they don’t allow jeans on the course. Can I get away with yoga pants?”
My Inner Comedienne whirls to face me, holding out the generously proportioned purple striped knickerbockers from her matchstick thighs. The yards of fabric billow madly beneath in the draft from the store’s air conditioner, rendering them the appearance of a semi-collapsed parachute. “Well,” she says, “your only other alternative is to borrow these.”
I eye her parachute knickerbockers with speculative interest, noting their elasticated waist. “You know,” I say, “I might JUST be able to make those work…”
- feature photo: shutterstock
- lady golfers: golftips.golfsmiths.com
- babe didrikson zaharias: golfsense.net
- jessica rabbit: webnuggetz.com
- yoga pants: muscleandstrength.com
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