Yesterday, I picked up a bridesmaid dress and a pair of pants from a local tailor. The bridesmaid dress is one I chose; the bride, bless her heart, selected a color and a designer and told us, “Pick anything you like.”
For Jac, that means not long, not strapless. Because if a dress is short with some form of strap, I might actually wear it again.
This is what I chose:
When I put it on, it was a tad big in the boobs. Strapless bras are the invention of the devil, so my goal was to be able to go bra-less (I heart you, tiny tatas). I brought the dress, and a pair of pants, to a tailor and asked if she could:
- Make the dress tighter around my boobs so they wouldn’t pop out for an impromptu dance party, and
- Make the around-the-neck halter a touch shorter.
Tila Tequila (OK, her name is Tila, but everyone in town seems to refer to her by the reality-star’s moniker) drew a few lines on the dress in chalk as I modeled it.
For the TJ Maxx clearance black pants, she made a few marks on the back of the waistband. They fell on the hip, and I wanted them to fit my natural waist.
Fastforward a week and a half. Yesterday after work, I picked up my clothes. I put the dress on. Was it tight? I moved and wiggled and boogied in the dressing room to make sure moving and wiggling and boogying were options. I didn’t have any armpit fat. The dress didn’t stretch unattractively around me at any part. And then I realized … It wasn’t too small. It was just right. This is what a dress that fits perfectly feels like. It doesn’t gather or bunch or give unwanted chub. It just … fits.
((cue angels’ voices))
(You can bet your butt I’ll wear this bad boy again — I’m planning on my rehearsal dinner, assuming I don’t balloon up before May.)
When I tried on the pants, however, there was a bit of a problem. When I pulled them up over my butt, they got caught, and I heard a riiiip. When I fastened them, I was ecstatic to see that they fit perfectly on my waist — again with the “This is how pants should fit.” Normally when a pair of pants fit my waist perfectly, my thighs resemble The Incredible Hulk’s forearms just before he rips through yet another T-shirt.
However, there at the top of the waistband where Tila had made her alternations was a 1-inch rip.
I showed her, and she offered to fix them on the spot.
“Well,” I said. “I think I ripped them. The zipper’s too short, and they don’t fit over my butt.”
“REALLY???” she asked. (Yes, I have a bubble ass. I like it, but it makes perfect pants impossible). “Do you want me to let out the waist a quarter inch?”
When she finished, I tried the pants on again. If I suck in my butt like crazy, I can pull them up without ripping them … and they lay perfectly on my waist. No muffin top, with maybe a quarter-inch too much room.
I’ll take it.
Today, my pants look as hough I’m preparing for the flood.
I chose these in lieu of the ones that are so long, they cover my entire foot and pool on the ground.
I think maybe it’s time to take every pair of pants I own to Tila.