Around here, we know that from Halloween through Easter — Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s and Mardi Gras — is the “Fat Season” (with the exception of Lent if you’re Catholic.)
Now I live in an apartment behind the Sloth Lounge, so kids can’t find me for trick-or-treat. But I still buy Halloween candy. I carry it when I go for a walk in case I meet any kids who need candy. Naturally, I got to eat the leftovers to prevent waste.
Last summer, me and my gentleman friend Lust decide to fly to the actual Bahamas for a week. I never been there before in my life. I know that with the Fat Season coming up right after, it might be the last time I can fit into this bathing suit for a while.
Maybe I had that fact on my mind when I ordered a special extra comfy sweatsuit especially designed for flying — with a lot of extra pockets and a sleeping mask you can pull down from the hoodie. I ordered a X-Large, which I figured would be extra comfy and also to allow some growing room.
It didn’t get delivered until the day before we left, and with all the packing and writing reminder notes and threats to leave in various places for the kids, I didn’t have time to try it on.
The cab is already out front to take us to the airport when I put the suit on. Then, when I jump into the back seat with Lust, he looks at me and says, “Who are YOU? Modine? Is that you in there?”
This suit is enormous. It looks like I borrowed it from Jabba the Hut.
Thinking back, I guess I didn’t take into account that, in addition to being big, it’s also unisex, so I should have ordered a size down.
Well, I got to admit it IS comfortable. But the pants keep falling down.
I pray that my baggage arrives in the Bahamas on time.
Which it don’t. But there are shops in the Bahamas and I slop into one in this sweatsuit get-up and buy a T-shirt with a shark on it and shorts that match the shark. They fit, and it turns out this will be my wardrobe for my week in the Bahamas.
Five days later my suitcase gets there. I am so excited. Lust says we should to go to the hotel dining room for a fancy dinner and celebrate my birthday ahead of time. (It will actually be in two weeks.)
While I am deciding what to wear, now that I have actual choices, Lust goes down to the dining room ahead of me. He tells the waiter it is my birthday and whatever I order for my dessert, could he put a candle in it and sing. The waiter says certainly sir, and how old is the lady?
Lust gets a evil inspiration. He tells the waiter I am 95. (For your information, I am NOT 95. Not even close, thank you very much.)
Anyway, in I strut in the best outfit I packed, and ask this same waiter — who happens to be standing by the door— if he will show me to Mr. Lust’s table. His eyes bug out and he says, “Ohhh my Gawd! You look amazing!” I give him a big smile, glad that I am wearing actual clothes that fit and that don’t have a shark connection, and say “Thaank 🎵 you…”
He holds my elbow all the way to Lust’s table and seats me like I was as fragile as a two week-old manicure.
Seems a little overboard, until I overhear him tell another waiter how old I supposedly am.
After dinner, Lust tells me his little white lie got us excellent service. I just snarl.
But I do offer to lend him my big comfy sweat suit for the ride home. And I do wander around in the hotel gift shop until I spot a whoopee pillow. And I do stick it into the sweat pants’ enormous back pocket for the trip home.
It was a good trip, after all. Now bring on the Halloween candy.
