Today I am grateful for the second of my Laundromat Chronicles. The costumes people wear at the Laundromat could be worn for Halloween. Seriously. I get it. You want to wash every single thing that you would usually wear, so you dig into the dregs because you can’t just strip your clothes off and throw them in the washer like you would at home. But oh my. . .what I saw.
It’s not state secret that I’m a sizable woman. . .with a more than sizeable butt. Cartoons have been drawn of me and this butt and they are hilarious! It’s okay. I’m not blind, or clueless. We’ve been together a long time I haul that thing around every day so I know. I spin and face the mirror in Zumba and get a load of myself and I am reminded of the old balloons I got as a kid at the shoe store. You know, the ones with the cardboard feet on the balloon knot. I’m not being self-deprecating here, I’m being honest. . .laying the ground work for the real story. Because I don’t want you to think I’m mean, I want you to remember that it takes one to know one.
There was a woman at the Laundromat with a butt twice as big as mine, which I didn’t even think was possible, poor thing. She was very nice, pretty face and all of that crap we big-butter’s hear a lot. I noticed her when she moved out of the way when I needed to get through with the rolly-cart, but. . .do the math. . .two big butts trying to get out of each other’s way. . .not very pretty. We looked like Suma wrestlers taking a stance, except I was wearing jeans because I was only washing sheets.
She was a white woman wearing pale-pink, skin-tight, mid-thigh, worn-thin, polyester shorts. Did you get the pale pink part? Almost flesh colored. Pale-pink. Yikes! I have no right commenting. None! But all I could think when I saw them was what a great costume they would make if you took a fuzzy pink pipe cleaner and curled it around a pencil, pinned it to the back, then wore my Miss Piggy nose. I know that’s just wrong! I’m sorry, but that’s where my mind went. I’m a horrible person. She’s a kindred soul. I shouldn’t be thinking something like that.
I wanted to be thinking one of the lines I usually use in situations like this. . .“Interesting choice” or “that’s a look”. . . but I wasn’t. I was all about the curly tale. But if you have the same kind of cellulite that I do, where your butt looks like a dimply bath matt. . .or like a Spastic Baker took a knitting needle to rising bread dough, then maybe you ought to pass on the pale-pink, skin-tight shorts, even if it is laundry day. Just saying. Make another choice. Wear something dirty! Like a schmatta, a moo-moo, a toga-sheet! Better to pass on the pale-pink shorts!
But she didn’t pass on them. She wore them. In public. At the Laundromat. And for that I am grateful because she could be the second feature in my Laundromat Chronicles. Oh come on! She was nice and had a very pretty face, so get off my back!