Home' Trinidad and Tobago Guardian : April 6th 2015 Contents A31
Monday, April 6, 2015 www.guardian.co.tt Guardian
Fifteen pounds lighter and a whole lot cuter,
I was walking on imported air. This low-carb-
healthy-things programme is my new best
friend. I even forgive the lemon juice in warm
water, which I used to consider the invention
of some prune-faced diet dominatrix. Now,
it s like a perky pal who announces a crisp,
Embellished by new Gillian Bishop earrings
(think rhodolite, which sounds like something
carved from the horns of a dinosaur but is
actually a lovely pinkish variety of garnet) I
was unsinkable, untouchable and dazzling the
world with my fabulousness.
But there is always somebody in the peanut
gallery who has a two-dollar opinion.
He: "Okay, calm down. Don t go quivering
like a young duckling just out of the pond."
Me: "Watch it, this good mood does not last
According to my owner s manual, the appro-
priate response, technically, would have been
a frying pan upside the left of his head but
subsection 2 (b) of the amended edition implies
that such cave woman violence is to be deplored,
although no jury of my peers would have convicted.
Instead, a withering glare and a brisk high-heeled
pivot should be sufficient to underscore one s absolute
lack of amusement. (And he deserved a reprieve,
anyway, on account of the new rhodolite.)
He: "Stop frowning at me, Botox doesn t last
Me, snarkily: "Ooh, just the thing I was looking
for. This T-shirt fits me again."
He, reading slowly across my chest: "DON T
ANNOY THE CRAZY PERSON. Hahahahaaa. Girl,
Me: "It s deterrence, general and specific."
He, with soulful brown eyes: "My dear, you are
the still the sweet, adorable girl I married."
Me: "Now you are just being ridiculous."
Having suitably deflected the unsolicited review,
I set off on a mall crawl, humming along to Meghan
Trainor s retro-bubblegum pop anthem: "Yeah, it s
pretty clear I ain t no size two, but I can shake it,
shake it like I m supposed to do."
On rare occasions in a shopper s life, imagination
meets reality. You picture yourself in, let s say, navy
jersey draped Grecian goddess-like across one shoul-
der, and then, shazam!
You actually find the dream look on a rack in your
fave boutique, with a
price tag that doesn t
produce an ache
between the eyebrows
as if you ate ice cream
The jersey prize was
coming home with me
but, first, I had to try it
on---just so I could ask
the saleswoman, "Do
you have this in a
Little did I know
(they always say that in
backs and my morning
was swerving danger-
ously close to melodra-
ma) that the body mon-
sters had planned an
You know what I
mean. Those invisible
hateful creatures who lurk in the fitting rooms of
department stores and fancy shops; hide in the mir-
rors; and adjust the lighting when no one is looking,
so your skin morphs from glowing to sallow and the
Lane Bryant underwear, which you thought was sexy,
takes on the appearance of dingy bandages that do
not cover enough of what the body monsters are
hellishly squawking at.
The malignant illusionists distort the hills and
dales, and drop your bosom an inch south.
They magnify pores, and as soon as you disrobe,
the little imps apply magic markers to every line,
spot, crease, blackhead, freckle, and mosquito bite
on your unprotected body. Suddenly, life s road map
is drawn in the inkiest ink all over your naked can-
I bolted from dressing room number three before
the monsters could burrow into my head---once they
penetrate, it takes years of therapy and smashing of
mirrors and anything breakable, actually, to get rid
The symptoms of the mind meld include a kind
of madness, whereby you begin believing you are so
ugly you belong in a cave, although you are really
still impressively you, which is always a splendid
thing to be.
He: "Why do you have that worried look on your
face? What s the matter?"
Me: "Nothing. Tell me again about the wonderful
girl you married."
Send me your cures for body invasions, no
selfies, please, at firstname.lastname@example.org
No monsters hiding in my mirror
hateful creatures who
lurk in the fitting
rooms of department
stores and fancy
shops; hide in the
mirrors; and adjust
the lighting when no
one is looking, so
your skin morphs
from glowing to
sallow and the Lane
which you thought
was sexy, takes on
the appearance of
dingy bandages that
do not cover enough
of what the body
monsters are hellishly
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