..and nothing but.
I was just walking down to my local Subway for some 'nutritious' dinner, when I was stopped in my visual tracks by this woman walking in the other direction with some guy.
It was a sight to behold. She was a sight to behold.
She was a 'chubby' Asian, short and stocky. She was wearing bright lemon-yellow pants with buckles all over them, and they were spray-on-super-tight.
Accompanying this ocular delight was the exact same coloured jacket, also replete with buckles, only about 2 sizes too small.
Top this off with (yes, you guessed it) exactly the same coloured calf-high boots, buckles galore.
Seriously, I choked as I struggled to withhold a laugh.
What made it all the more hilarious, was that she was totally uncomfortable. It was utterly obvious that she was a sum of parts. It wasn't her - it was her fantasy prescription.
Hell, she couldn't even walk properly. Whether that be from her ridiculously inappropriate (for the terrain) high heels, or because her leg movement was being utterly constricted by the tensile pressure of her pants, or because each and every step was an exercise in genital pain, I will never know.
Oh and adding to the comic relief were her oversized and dorky horn-rimmed glasses bestowed smack in the middle of her huge moon-shaped face.
It's truly hard to put into words.
Anyhow, point being that right there and then I was faced with a dilemma:
Do I say something, out of kindness for her fashion affiliation?
Or do I walk on by, it being none of my business after all.
And besides, who am I to judge 'fashion'? Or does this transcend hawt and become nothing about fashion and everything about being just 'wrong'?
Is there such a thing as a golden baseline that transcends the sublimely ridiculous?
It got me thinking about The Truth vs Being Nice.
Where do you draw the line? Are you being more 'honest' and helpful by saying what everybody else is thinking, or is their pride worth more than the silent ridicule of others?
You know exactly what I'm talking about - all those times you've ever been placed in a position whereby your social training overrides the truthful answer:
"Does my ass look big in these?"
Oh dear. I mean, the only reason anyone asks this question is because they look at their rear in the mirror and see a postcode-sized mass forcibly squeezed into a tailored piece of cloth that has every stitch hanging on for dear life.
They know it, and you know it. The question only exists because everyone involved knows it.
Yet, you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't - right?
"Yeh you're right! Those pants look like they're about to explode!" would go down like a fart in an astronaut suit. Yet, the atypical answer of "No no no. They look - great! *gulp" is about as mean and horrid as you can get, on many levels:-
- it's just plain untrue (liar - lying to your partner for instance)
- it's totally unfair (each and every person to come across said 'ass' that night in public will be thinking exactly the same thing - ridicule in other words)
- you're setting an emotional benchmark in the mind of the Large Ass Bearer that they will reference forever and a day ("hmm - that's good - these don't look bad, so I can take it a little further even..")
What's the value of short-term pain over long-term gain (reality) in this case?
Same goes for 'large' folk. You know, those of us who are blessed with the body mass of three. Or more.
What on earth are the rest of us supposed to do - pretend that what we're looking at isn't really there??
I've had a couple of memorable encounters with this one over the course of my years.
The first was with a friend. She was an absolute classic. Being Dutch, she was no stranger to the term 'brutal honesty'. In fact to this day, I tip my hat in her general direction for that alone.
Imagine this:
My mother is a little large. She's a very pretty woman, and in her youth she was dainty and porcelain-like. The march of time has ravaged her to within a few inches of her life on many occasions, and as such she is no longer the slight of a woman she once was.
I brought my new friend to the family home to meet the parents. Anyone who has been through this will relate to how nerve wracking the situation is.
We walked into the lounge to be greeted by my mother and father standing there. My first words were: "Mum, Dad; this is Jane Doe, my friend." "Jane Doe, meet Jack and Jill, my parents."
Her first words were: "Hello Jill. Wow, you're really pretty in the face. You could stand to lose a couple of pounds though?"
*silence....
You could slice the air with a knife.
Hell, I could've sliced my wrists with a knife at that point.
I looked at my father, who was always meek and obtusely self-fladulating around my mother for various reasons (if not simply to provide entertainment for the rest of us), and he kinda gave me a look in reply that said "Ok - for once I'm stumped.. umm, pass?"
Whilst we all stood there for what seemed like an eternity, all eyes fell to my mother who was quite obviously processing the words of my wife-to-be from all possible angles. Likely, in that short time frame, my Mother had already visualised my entire friendship to this new Dutch person from go to whoa, and it most probably wasn't a pretty picture.
The next thing we know, it's us standing around with our jaws on the floor, looking in disbelief at my Mother who had just said:
"Oh you're quite right. You know I used to be quite the pretty thing when I was your age. Now there's more of me for Jack to get his hands on - at least it keeps them busy! Sit down, sit down and I'll go make us all a cup of coffee."
Wow.
The look that passed between my Father and I that day will never ever be topped.
Looking back on it now, it's quite amazing. My Mother and my ex got along famously from that point onwards (to this very day in fact) and more than that, my Mother will only ever open up to my ex. If there's something deep and meaningful, or personal, that my Mother wishes to discuss, it's my ex that will get the phone call. There's a special place in mum's heart for her.
Interesting, huh.
There was another, more recent, incident whereby I was forced into the dilemma of truth vs pleasantry. (I've mentioned this elsewhere, on another blog, but it bears repeating here..)
Not so far back I was required to go to London for work. Which, as you know, means enduring a painfully long flight.
As luck would have it, I got seated next to one of the largest women I'd ever laid eyes upon.
Knowing that doing nothing would result in 24 hours of total hell, I broke the ice up front and said:
"Hi, I'm Steve." (extend hand)
"This may come across as rude, but it's not intended to be. We've gotta be as comfortable as possible for the next day.."
and she interrupted me at that point, over talking me with:
"I'm Sara." (she smiled)
It's ok - I'm not the smallest person I know, but I'm the nicest."
I really didn't know what to say, so I just smiled.
"Just be honest with me if I leak into your seat ok?"
..and with that we both cracked up laughing.
It was one of the best flights I've ever had. Not because I had space (as I most certainly did not) but because we were both relaxed the entire way.
No unspoken crap, no uncomfortable silences, and believe it or not I even asked her to move a little at one point when I was trying to catch some sleep mid-flight.
It was great. Hell, she was great.
It's always an interesting dilemma, and I'm sure you must've come across it before. Maybe next time it comes up, you'll think twice about how you're going to reply, or even more-so, whether or not you're honest enough to say what it is that everyone else on the planet will be thinking.
The truth, the whole truth, and..
..well, that's up to you. =)
Labels: Fashion Crimes, Overweight
posted by Zarres @ 7:11 pm
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