Photo by Maria Mandanas at http://www.flickr.com
The definition of compression is the action or state of being squished down or made smaller or more pressed together.
When a pile of material is squished together and made smaller and more dense,, this is an example of compression.
Compression is when you reach fifty and realise that you’ve shrunk. So much so, that suddenly your children look down on you and you can’t reach those bags of Kettle chips you secreted at the back of the kitchen cupboards, so no-one else could get to them.
The most significant problem with the bodily compression that comes with ageing is that sometimes when things are compressed, they also become more dense.
So although I may have only lost an inch in height (sometime during my forties), I’ve gained about ten inches in glorious techni-density around my waist. Science can fuck you over like that.
I am learning to cope with the muffin top….well, not really…maybe… just…but finding that perfect Christmas dress has been a perilous journey this year.
I must have tried on at least forty-eight dresses during an eight-hour marathon torture session amid the pre-Christmas rush in Myer, yesterday, when I foolishly attempted to squeeze my newly-compressed, middle-aged frame into just about every fucking style of dress ever designed.
By 4.30pm, and close to my ninth barren hour of shopping, desperation sunk in and I relocated myself to the hallowed designer sections of Myer without an ounce of guilt or unease. Pretty Woman sales assistants looked over my head and pretended I was as invisible as I think I am.
What can I say? I had become a woman who could justify any shopping crime by that point of the day. Alas, it seems that even when you pay a lottery win price for what is basically a piece of material, it still doesn’t guarantee it will fit.
I spent a sleepless night drifting between dreams about Cinderella’s shame after midnight and mentally going through my current wardrobe, hoping to find some magical reprieve, that long-forgotten and perfect outfit that would look good on my new fuller figure.
By 9.30am this morning I was at another mall as the doors opened with a new set of compromised criteria and had already purchased two outfits by 10am as well as promising the old man a Karma Sutra of sexual favours in repayment for my shopping felonies.
I now have a new dress for Christmas Day. I feel guilty for baring publicly such a first world problem but I hope you’ll believe me, readers, when I tell you that I am still paying for my African child. But I need to think of my own children too – and that dress could make the difference between a great and a ’truly shite’ Christmas for them.
I’ve sat through Paddington and The Kranks At Christmas today with Kurt, so I’ve done my time. Once again I have put my children’s needs before mine.
Happy Christmas everyone!