I Couldn't Make This Up

Several weeks ago, my friends and I had a spur of the moment idea for a clothing swap, and it turned out shockingly AWESOME, especially for me. Shocking because we range in size from 4 to 10, and yet all of us can fit--roughly--into each others' clothes. (Dear Clothing Designers: I HATE YOU. THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH.) I brought home two pairs of slacks, one pair of corduroys, two work tops, and some earrings, and I haven't taken off the earrings or the slacks pretty much since I got them. Everything else—all the leftover clothes no one wanted or needed—went to Goodwill in big bags--five big black garbage bags--thanks to my Jeep Cherokee, who is still nameless. My closet can breathe, and I dress cuter for work. Hooray!

Which is good, because now that I’ve changed jobs, I sit in a different building—the building with all of our customer offices. And our customers are from all over the world. Every day I go to work, I am face to face with dozens of beautiful French, Spanish, and German girls that are size zero and have no fear about wearing fashionable boots and scoop-neck tops. They could eat me for breakfast, or would, if they ate at all. This building is so famous guy friends of mine who work in other buildings sometimes make the trek to this building to have lunch in our cafeteria. Just for the eye candy. I need to look as cute as possible, y’all.

But that’s not the point. The point is, a guy friend called me during the clothing swap. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

I looked around. “I’m…watching six of my friends get undressed,” I said helplessly.

Silence.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “And I assume my invitation got lost in the mail?”