Please, Be Seated

 I love to wear dresses and skirts.  There was a time I would not have been caught wearing anything but pants, but now, I love A-line, flowy, tight, long short dresses or skirts.  I remember my husband before he was my husband, informing me that he liked when I wore skirts.  I replied that I did not have the shoes for that type of wardrobe change.  He answered, “Well, then we will find you new shoes.”  And a dress-wearer was born.  I stocked my closet with wrap dresses, faux wrap dresses, ankle-length and mini skirts, colorful and simple solid skirts, internationally influenced and old fashioned American dresses.  I wore them all the time.  I kinda still do.  My daughter will often ask, mom, why are you so dressed up today.  Might be a full day of work, or a random Tuesday of errands and chores.  

One thing about wearing skirts and dresses that you would never know is a problem unless you have this derriere design is that magically the hem of my garment takes on two different measurements.  Unless one is wearing an item purposely designed to be longer in the back, or like Lee Lee’s Valise, a designer deigned to add a bit more fabric in back so that it appeared to be the same length all the way around, there is often a problem with forward tipping hem syndrome.  

This is not a true syndrome or disorder, but give me time.  I’m working on the justification.  When a person has a large buttocks, the flow and hang of skirts and dresses is impeded.  The ass takes up enough room to lift the skirt or dress, butt only in the back.  If one glances from the side, it appears as though the dress-wearer is bending down.  There is no bending down happening, only butt hold up.  

Now reader, I painstakingly took time to explain all of this for a reason.  It took me years to move from plants to skirts.  I now live in a climate that is warm in the winter and I no longer need to wear leggings under said dresses or skirts.  Herein lies the problem.  I was with a friend

 enjoying one of my last restaurant meals out before the now becomes ‘before’. I had chosen a knee-length colorful dress to wear.  I looked so cute! My hair was in braids, my makeup flawless and my outfit was just right.  

My friend and I sat, ate and chatted for nearly two hours. This divine-smelling Greek restaurant challenged me on my commitment to not consume fries.  It tempted me with coconut cream pie, baklava, and cake.  I decided upon the salad with grilled chicken.  Right?!  I know!!! Yay me!  I had nothing to drink because that is something I’ve needed to practice.  After surgery, there is a 30-30-30 rule when eating and drinking.  No beverage 30 minutes before eating.  I need to take 30 minutes to eat the meal (small bites and lots of chewing because it takes 20 minutes for your body to register that it’s full), and then wait 30 minutes after the meal to drink.  The reason behind this is that beverages help us eat faster and consume more by pushing food down at a more rapid pace.  After surgery, it can also wash the food through too fast for my body to absorb the needed nutrients.  So, there I sat with my salad and chicken as my friend enjoyed, another of my favorites, Philly cheesesteak and fries.  I checked in with all of my selves.  Ya’ll ok?  Everyone feeling strong in the moment?  Good! No part of me was plotting to jump across the table and relieve her of her fried potatoes that were delicately drizzled with ketchup.  

I was aware, when I chose the only booth that was available, that it was covered in pleather and cracked down the center of the seat.  The alternative to the booth was a hard chair that did not look like it would pass the ass test.  So, I slid into the booth, noting the space between my tummy and the table; I didn't have to push the table toward my friend one bit.  After two hours of laughing and sharing, it was time to go.  Before then, I had the most uncomfortable pinching in my upper-leg area.  I started to shift around looking for a more comfortable position.  My left leg was stuck to the booth. “Houston, WE HAVE A PROBLEM!” I had to jerk my leg this way and that and make such jarring motions to start the extraction that I actually interrupted my friend to tell her why I was moving around so much.  “It seems that I may be stuck to the booth.  Pardon me as I move, jiggle and adjust as you are telling your story.”  After a while, and a few looks from the couple to our left, I stopped trying.  My attention was back on my friend until the pain was unbearable.  I did that thing where you wrench your leg outward in the most unladylike fashion to free my thighs from the grip of the pleather.  I swear I heard a ripping sound and if one looks closely, one might find a layer of my skin in booth #1.  I sat with both legs dangling off the booth as I rested my right elbow on the table trying to keep my undivided attention on my friend.  Her story was so gripping that I didn’t want to jump up and make her think I was disinterested.  I sat in that position, lower body facing left, upper body resting on my arm which was on the table.  Each half of my body had their own agenda, until it was time to scoot off the booth while gently yet firmly coercing my skirt to exit the places where it had settled and cover my thighs that were raw and offended.  

Damn, I can’t wait to wear a skirt that is the same length all the way around and does not hike up in the back when I sit, stand, walk, move, breathe or partake in any other human activity.