When you're only having seconds, I'm having twenty-thirds

Because I'm fat, I'm fat, come on
(Fat, fat, really really fat)
You know I'm fat, I'm fat, you know it
(Fat, fat, really really fat)
You know I'm fat, I'm fat, come on you know
(Fat, fat, really really fat)
Don't you call me pudgy, portly or stout
Just now tell me once again who's fat?

We'll get to that lovely song reference in a second. I have been intending on writing a post for sometime now about the insane Land of Weddings...and, believe me, it is a Land, just not one dreamed up by Mr. Disney alongside Fantasyland and Adventureland (although you can get the matching Cinderella invitations. WARNING: Don't view without a vomit bag!)

This morning was our first viewing of one of the wedding venues we had narrowed things down to The Metropolian Club on the 67th floor of the Sears Tower. Bosco has some really snazzy hookups in the H&T biz and it was only because of that "in" that we even bothered looking, as it is not only high in the sky, but features galactical budgets.

It was very lovely, and as a bonus I got a free trip to the top of the Sears Tower (all the locals go Whoo!) Alas, the "in" brought the price out of the stratosphere, but still way more than practical, no screws loose me could stomach spending on one day. There is another option we're seeing on Saturday, but I'm not posting the name until we have a signed contract---no one is wedding googling, finding this entry and snagging my venue!

Speaking of kooky things, what exactly is it about weddings that turns bright, accomplished, independent women into completely feeble little whisps who fret and frown over whether or not "Acapulco Gold" will still be in for a 2009 event and are reduced to hysterical tears (I can only imagine, based on the frightening emoticons in some of the forum posts I've prowled looking for ideas) upon finding out that the autumn leaf placecards are on backorder until after their event!

And the weight? Oh lordy the weight! I had been hearing about this wedding phenomenon non-stop at my current gig as one of the gals has been a bridesmaid 4 times in the past 3 months.....she's on a perpetual diet, actually CHISELS a pear down over an 8 hour period and still shares the majority with someone else. This is not a large girl, she has no glandular issues; why then would she do this to herself you ask? She didn't want to order a size 10 because she could almost fit into an 8 without alterations if she starved herself. Oh yeah, did I mention she was a Phi Beta Kappa with a Master's Degree?

But, your demure writer has laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of all of these things and sworn that SHE SHALL BE DIFFERENT! SHE SHALL BE STRONG! SHE SHALL NOT FREAK OVER TUSSY MUSSYS!

Until today. Like the lambasted Ms. J Love Hewitt, I am apparently fat.

After lunching with Mr. Bosco and Lady R, I decided to officially start the wedding budget and go purchase the dress I had seen a few weeks ago. I walked in to the store, was a little shocked that my dress wasn't where it was hanging originally, and, with a mere gleam on panic started furtively hunting through the "general stock" rack until I found it....size 4, 6, 8, 10....no 12.

FUN FACT FROM WEDDINGLAND (in case you missed it): Special occasion dresses are made "European" sizes and my svelte size 4 at Old Navy is a 12 in their world.

I asked the sales girl if my dress could be ordered in a 12, when she said "yes", I said I would like to do so, but wanted to try on the 10 real quick just to confirm I liked the style. It was just as magical and just as tight in a couple places....but, hey, that's what alterations are for, right?

My fatal mistake was then wanting to see it in the 3-way mirror and stand on the pedestal outside the fitting room so I could see the drape of it and have a mental image for when looking for shoes.

The sales gal saw me come out of the fitting room, noisily, sucked air over her teeth, raised an accusing eyebrow and gave me a once over, snarking "Oh honey, are you going to lose some weight before the wedding?" KEEP IN MIND, I had already told her I knew I needed the 12 and just wanted to try the 10 on for the style. I pasted on my best Minnesotan smile and carried on chattily with her about how I would gain a lot of muscle tone training for the MS Tour De Farms bike ride & wasn't worried as long as there was plenty of fabric for the tailor. Why in the hell she couldn't have just said "Yes, I think you are right in ordering the 12." Why am I apparently expect to starve myself to fit into what smaller size they have?

I know I should have walked out, but not wanting to give up "my" dress, I went ahead and special ordered it, which took 25minutes, since the clerk was apparently new, and didn't know how to do it. She proceeded to call 7 other stores to find someone to talk her through it because her manager was on lunch and refused to help.

Needless to say, I know I shouldn't feel bad, I know I am a good person and bright and funny and, not that it's a huge (pun intended) thing, but I am petite and not exactly a mudflap in the looks department. But, wow, it does sting and even though my logical side is brushing it off as ludicrous and idiotic there is a smaller side influenced by today's onslaught of skinnymedia that is whispering "Well, maybe just a pound or two...."

*sigh* Can we just go back to the refined era where I was traded for a bunch of goats?