Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect by Sarah Catherine Knights Page B

piece of clothing hanging there, appears to be either black, charcoal grey or light grey; dullness jumps out and strangles me with its dull dullness. 
    I get everything off its hanger and lay the clothes out on the bed; I start trying things on that I haven’t worn for years.  One pair of jeans, I can’t get past my thighs; one grey skirt – I can’t even do the zip up; one smart pair of black trousers, I can get the zip up, just, but the button pops off as I attempt to put it through the hole.  My only evening dress, in red chiffon, floats beautifully on the hanger, but on me, looks like some frightful, cheap catalogue dress.  I realise I’ve turned into my mother, as I stare at myself with utter amazement.  When did that happen?  I look just like I remember her, when she and my dad went out to a works do – nicely ‘done up’ in her eyes, but looking frumpy and unsophisticated, in mine.  And now, here I am, looking like her, but worse. 
    I pull off the dress and throw it across the room in disgust, angry both at the dress, for making me look a fright and at myself, for allowing the rolls of fat to accumulate around my middle.  I pull my rather large pants up over the rolls, in an attempt to disguise them, but to no avail.  I vow to buy some magic pants that are said to be a wonder at sucking it all in and hiding it – but surely it’s got to go somewhere?  Maybe I need one of those all in one underwear garments, as seen on Gok Wan’s TV programme, so there’s nowhere for the fat to escape.  No VPL (visible panty line) because the pants end below the knees and the corset ends above the boobs.  It sounds like torture, but maybe it’s the way forward.
    The process of trying on things goes on for an hour and by the end, I’m exhausted and depressed with the state of my clothes and my physical shape.  There’s a huge pile of ‘definite throw outs’; a small pile of ‘possible keeps’ and very few ‘definite keeps’. 
    I’m going to have to go shopping or I’ll have nothing to wear.  Most women would love this prospect, but I view it with dread.  I’ve never been good at buying clothes and now that I’ve confronted my body head on, I know buying clothes will be even more of a challenge.
    *
    Lisa and I arrange to go shopping on Wednesday, in Bath.  It’s going to be a day out as well as a shopping trip – a chance for her to have a day away from her kids and for me to have some company.  I don’t like shopping with other people, but we agree we’ll split up, do our own thing, and then meet up for lunch.
    I pick her up and we drive to the Park and Ride.  The buses go every ten minutes, so you never have to wait long, but it’s annoying as one pulls out as we pull into the car park.   It reminds me of my past, when I had to catch a bus to and from school every day; the bus drivers, I was sure, took delight in pulling away, as I ran like a maniac, shouting and waving my arms.
    A queue forms and we appear to be two of the younger ones – only OAPs and teachers on holiday have the time to go shopping mid-week.  I don’t consider myself like those old people … yet.
    As we drive down Lansdowne, past all the Regency buildings near the bottom of the hill, I begin to wonder if living in Bath might be an option for me.  It’s so beautiful and it would mean I was in a city, with everything on tap.
    “I wonder if I could afford to live here, with my half of the house?” I ask Lisa.
    “What?  Are you thinking of moving?  I didn't realise you …”
    “Well, if I retire and we have to share the assets, maybe a whole new start would be good for me?  I’m sure there’s loads going on in Bath …”
    “I’d miss you …”
    “It would be a good excuse for you to come to Bath more often.  Whenever I come here, I always wish I made the effort.  It’s so … so … civilised.  I could probably only afford a room, though.”
    I stare out of the window.  The bus is just turning