‘Sorcha is by no means overweight, but . . .'
. . . closing that dress was like trying to stuff a duvet into a microwave’
A bout six months ago, my wife bought a Stella McCortney sheer plissé dress for the wedding of an old friend from UCD, who I couldn’t pick out of a line-up of one, even though I supposedly slept with her twice. That last bit is irrelevant. The dress is the point of the story.
They didn’t have the thing in Sorcha’s actual size, which was an eight, but she loved it so much, she bought it in the next size down, which was a six, figuring – in a fit of insane optimism that I’m told is not uncommon amongst the deadlier of species – that she would somehow lose a pile of weight between then and now and it would fit her.
“When the summer comes, we’ll be eating nothing but salads,” I remembering her saying, I have to be honest, repeatedly? We ate salad exactly twice this summer and both times it was on top of a quarter-pounder and jammed between two Bundys. So you can probably guess what happened last weekend when she decided to finally try on the dress with the wedding only six days away.
I was watching New Zealand beat Australia with Chad, our house-guest and my new bezzy mate, when I heard poor old Jesús Cristo’s name being taken in vain upstairs and I told Chad that it might be advisable to watch the second half in Christian’s gaff. But Sorcha called me when we were on the way out the door and asked me to come upstairs.
“Can you zip me up at the back?” she went.
I knew, roysh, even from one glance, that it was going to be an impossible job. And so it proved. Sorcha is by no means overweight, but closing that dress was like trying to stuff a duvet into a microwave.
“Why doesn’t it fit?” she went. “Jesus Christ, I’ve been buying nothing but salad since May.” And then focking it out a month later, I thought, when it turned black in the vegetable drawer in the fridge.
Honor suddenly appeared at the door of our bedroom, saw what was going down and went, “Oh! My God! Hill! Air!”
When I went back downstairs, Chad – actually, I’m going to stort calling him The Chad, because he’s earned it – went, “Is everything good?”
I explained the situation to him, how she tried everywhere for the dress in her actual size, including online – he’s an amazing listener – then I went, “Just to warn you, this is probably going to mean one of Sorcha’s crash diets. And when Sorcha is on a crash diet, it means we all are.”
He didn’t say anything. There was, like, nothing to say? Women are like Sodoku. You can spend all day trying to figure them out, but in the end you have to accept that there’s no real answer.
Shortly afterwards, Sorcha went out, then came back an hour later with four Superquinn bags stuffed to bursting point with, like, fruit and vegetables. I won’t deny that a certain dorkness fell over the house.