Life

Late night at WalMart

Say what you want about WalMart, but it’s an interesting place any time you go. And by “interesting,” I mean “you will see people who make you feel like you’re a frelling rock star.” It’s true! Go at 10 A.M. or 2 P.M. or 3 A.M. It doesn’t matter — you will see at least one person (or family) who will make you feel pretty dadgum good about how you look or act or raise your kids or whatever. I guarantee it. (Hey, do you Bulgarians have WalMart? If not, I’m sorry. You’re really missing out.)

Tonight, we went. (And wouldn’t you know I didn’t get one of those lightbulb things after all? Totally forgot about it, but Tricia’s got a pretty sweet new tummy time mat. And a carseat toy thing. And a rattle. I also found a KitchenAid food chopper, but I decided not to get that ’cause they only had red, and I haven’t decided what colors I’m using in my kitchen, so I don’t know if red would even match. And dammit. I’m digressing again.)

Anyway, I was feeling pretty bad for a couple of reasons. I had my infant out at 11:30 P.M. and worse, I had her out at WalMart. I was in my pajamas which are wicked cute capris and a pink t-shirt but pajamas nonetheless. And Bill was wearing some godawful get-up that involved a sleeveless t-shirt. I guess to show off his “guns” which are .22s instead of, yanno, 9mms, but at least it wasn’t a wife beater or something. And he did put on jeans instead of his new (kind of ugly, but totally functional) shorts.

Now, did any of this bother me enough to keep me at home? Nope. Or to even change my clothes? Newp. It’s WalMart, for God’s sake, someone else will make me look good by comparison. At least that’s my general attitude when we go to WalMart for anything. And so far, I have yet to be let down.

Tonight was no exception. Why, oh why, do some fat women not realize they are fat? I’m not talking about the girl with 15 extra lbs. who’s wearing low-rise jeans and a belly shirt, either, although they annoy the snot out of me, too. I’m talking about the big, big girls who don’t realize that size eight passed them by about 592 trips to Krispy Kreme ago.

Now before anyone gets their undies in a knot, I direct you to photos of me. (I even made a special album for y’all.) I’m a big, big girl. (And don’t anyone go arguing. I am. I’m okay with it. If I weren’t, I’d do more to change it.) So I’m totally allowed to say this kind of thing where a skinny bitch might not be.

Anyway, as I was saying, tonight was no exception. We walk in, and of course, there’s a plus-sized woman in junior-sized clothes. To give her credit, at least none of her flesh was actually exposed. Not that I couldn’t see every dimple and roll anyway, but no skin was showing. That’s a step in the right direction, I think. The next step would be for her to recognize that her clothes are five a couple of sizes too small, but I fear I’m dreaming too big.

Now look, I’m not ragging on anyone about their weight here. I have no idea what was going on with her — maybe she’s like me, and hypothyroidism has her metabolism all messed up. Maybe she’s got some other condition. I don’t know. I don’t care. Her body size is her business.

Right up until she’s wearing something that’s making her look like a sausage stuffed in a casing in public. Then? She’s opened that field right on up. Because while she might not be able to do a single thing about her weight, she is surely able to buy clothes that fit. Even WalMart sells plus-size clothing these days.

I sort of wonder about these people a little. Do they not have working mirrors at home? Friends who’ll tell them, “Hey, that’s not the greatest outfit for you”? Mothers? Sisters? ANYONE? That kind of thinking leads me to feeling sort of sorry for them and wanting to go befriend them so we can share fashion advice and commiserate about the lack of truly fashionable plus-size clothing while we sit and stare raptly at the ice cream we’re not eating because we’re trying very hard to be good on our new diets and not eating that ice cream means we get to feel smug and self-satisfied about how much willpower we have…

Whew. That sort of went off on its own tangent, didn’t it? Anyway, right about the time I get to feeling like that about this particular woman, she says (very loudly) to her friend, “Damn. I’m glad I’m not trashy enough to go out in my pajamas” which I’m pretty sure was in reference to me.

I guess it’s all about perspective.

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