You know those stupid board games that have questions you need to answer truthfully, or lose a turn? Yeah, the ones that invariably turn an amicable evening out with family and friends into a war zone of hurt feelings, bathroom brawls, and an occasional divorce (although to be fair, you didn’t HAVE to truthfully answer “Have you ever had an affair?” C’mon people, it’s a BOARD GAME. TAKE A PASS.)
Kenny and I were discussing the possibility of moving out of town after the house sells, and he said, “But I’d miss mom and dad. What about you?” Feeling the honesty that comes from 3 glasses of wine, I sighed, “I’d miss Brunhilda.” “Who’s Brunhilda??” “She’s my seamstress.” “Your WHAT?” “My seamstress.” “That’s the most shallow thing I’ve ever heard.”
Maybe. But he’s a GUY. They just hold up something from the rack, say “Looks good. It’ll fit,” and throw it in the cart. We’ve got curves. And bumps. And waists, and hips, and butts. And if you’re like me, the boobs are one size, the waist is another, and the hips simply need to go elsewhere…preferably on someone else’s body.
Brunhilda is my 78-year-old, 220 lb. German seamstress, with fingers of gold (a little nip here, a little tuck there, shorten this, lengthen that), and a stern, no-nonsense demeanor. I love her. She doesn’t always love back, but she can make a Hawaiian muu-muu flattering, so yes, if we moved away, I would pine for her.
So yesterday, we’re in the dressing room in her little shop, working on a dress that I was struggling to get past my hips, and I commented that probably losing a couple of pounds might ease the fit. She looked up at me and replied, through a mouthful of pins, that I could “just try a sit-up or two.” Ouch.
Chagrined and a little miffed, I wadded up the dress and told Brunhilda I changed my mind. As soon as I got home, I pulled it out and decided to fix it myself. Go into the bathroom, pin up the hem and mark the hips to ease the side seams, then stand up on my tip-toes as far as I can to check it out in the mirror over the sink. In a blinding flashback to my ballerina-dropout days, I topple over, stabbing myself with the pins, bleeding all over my what used to be my hottest dress, while attempting to prevent a faceplant on the counter by grabbing the towel rack, which promptly disengages from the wall, crashing to the floor in a tangled heap of fluffy towels, metal rods, and Sheetrock. Well, crap.
Now on my way to Safeway to get a You’re-Right-I-Was-Wrong-Please-Take-Me-Back floral bouquet for Brunhilda. There’s a 24-Hour Fitness on the way. Maybe I have time for a few sit-ups.