The last time I actually measured my waist was in 1987 using units of toilet paper squares at a baby shower. I haven’t needed to know how large or small I am since. I can see pretty well, and I know what goes up to it smoothly and what pushes everything north of my waistline up under my chin.
This year, my co-workers voted we should all go as 50s girls and host an open house. The costume shop had 3 basic adult female costumes: a slutty meter maid, a slutty nurse and a slutty witch. I did see one poodle skirt, but Scarlett O’Hara’s Mammy couldn’t have gotten me into it.
And it was a slutty poodle skirt too.
I decided to make my costume, which would finally require taking actual measurements. I hoped I was wrong and that my waistline hadn’t really left me for the elastic salesman. As it turned out, the size of a circle I needed to cut could be compared to a deflated hot-air balloon, a landscaped roundabout, or a Barnum and Bailey’s 3-Ring Circus ring.
I honed in on circus ring.
“I don’t think you’re that big,” my daughter, Krista, said, as I was looking for a yard stick to tape to another yard stick.
“You don’t develop good girth estimating abilities until you’re in your 30s, my dear,” I said, scraping the back of my brain for the Pi formula.
Months after my ego recovered from wearing the “Statue of Liberty-sized” poodle skirt, the same work-crew who voted “IN” the 50s wear took me shopping while we were on a business trip for the sole purpose of getting Heidi some cool jeans to wear on casual day.
But then, he’s into circus folk.