Last night, we're walking in the sweat-inducing, madness-causing heat-tasticness, and I see a person walking towards us. I don't realize I know her, as I'm not really looking at her face, but I notice that her outfit was fantastic, and I can't avert my eyes. It's a pretty long, straight stretch and I have a long time where I can legitimately stare, so that's pretty fun for a people-watcher like me. Really, how often do I just get to ogle somebody's interesting outfit choice without worrying if she's going to catch me?


She has on workout clothes,consisting of a sports bra and a pair of spandex short-shorts. Now, this sounds perfectly reasonable, until I mention that she is at least as large as me, if not larger. I'd actually say around 30 pounds larger, and about six inches shorter, and I usually under-estimate other people's weight, so....yeah. There's a lot of skin coming out of there. A lot. We approach her and I realize she's an acquaintance; not someone I know well, but someone I see around town and know well enough to talk to if I run into her at the store. She passes, smiling and giving a short greeting, and I realize that she has absolutely no discomfort about being seen in those clothes.


Oh my goodness. She is comfortable with herself.


How does that happen, and where do I sign up?


Just the thought of doing that makes me feel a little sick to my stomach. I would NEVER walk in public in short shorts and a sports bra. I would rather die from the heat than just wear less clothing and feel comfortable. As a matter of fact, I bought walking pants that are really yoga pants because I like that extra layer of fabric between my skin and the world. It's as if that fold-up top on the yoga pants is somehow going to disguise the voluminousness of my stomach when the wind blows my ginormous t-shirt against it. Oh, and don't even get me started on my arms. I'm uncomfortable enough even with clothes covering them. That's mostly because I have two giant hams concealed in my sleeves, only these aren't your garden-variety hams; these are attack hams, and if too much of them is uncovered, there will be a nuclear holocaust.


That's pretty much how I feel about that.


So, why does she get to walk around, oblivious to the extra poundage seeping out from between the bottom of her sports bra and the top of her spandex? I don't think that's the way it's supposed to work. I'm pretty sure there's some kind of law, requiring our kind of people to wear a muumuu or a Hefty bag when venturing out-of-doors. I think I read about it somewhere. Somewhere on the internet. I certainly don't get that kind of freedom. Am I just super neurotic? I mean, good for her and all, but even as I'm admiring her level of self-esteem, I'm cringing inside at the thought of how I'd look, out in public, with all my bits and pieces on display.


I realize this is ironic, in a week where I've posted about cheese and doughnuts, but I didn't actually eat those things. Well, not the doughnuts, anyway. 


Well, I guess as much as I want to be a normal, well-adjusted person, this particular thing isn't going to happen. There's just no way I can talk myself into airing out my flab. No matter how convincing I try to be with myself (and I have talked myself into some pretty interesting shenanigans in the past), my comfort will never come before my dignity (I still have a shred of dignity; let me hang onto it). We'll see how I feel when I'm 80. Maybe I'll change my mind.


Good for her, though.