Due to my extremely thick middle, my décolletage was non-existent. No push-up bra has ever been created that could have pulled them out of the dark cavernous bodice of that dress, and I’d left my duct tape at home. I’d decided to put my jeans back on and forget the whole ordeal, when I heard hubby softly calling through the curtain, “Are you going to come out so I can see?”
Humiliation began creeping up my spine. In our 23-year relationship, he has never made me feel anything less than beautiful. It was shallow and silly, but I began to cry. “I can’t come out like this.”
“Please,” he asked again. “I’d really like to see it.”
I wiped my eyes, and slowly opened the curtain.
“It’s not so bad.” He was being kind. I couldn’t help but think that this man who wears international clothing on a regular basis looks better in his Scottish kilt, or the Fijian skirts that make him look like his Aunt Enola, than I did in a Bavarian dirndl.
And so, my goal was born. I knew there was a good chance that his work would have us back in Germany a year later, and I was determined that I would be able to march out of that dressing room with my head held high.
Over the past year, I have changed my eating habits, started working out, and opted to have a tummy tuck. The tuck took away the lower flab, but I had to work on the mid-section or there was no way I would fit into one of those dresses.
I arrived in Berlin on Friday. Saturday morning I kicked jet lag in the head, and went straight to the department store. Cautiously optimistic, I pulled all the size 44s and 42s from the racks and left the 46s hanging.