Ash

As I type, I'm conducting a homemade liposuction procedure. My implements? Bicycle pump and an array of kitchen utensils. The targeted area? Thigh.

What pushed me over the edge?

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

I'm a 12, but JEEPERS, these garments were enough to reduce me to cellulite laden blubbering (ah ha).

It wasn't all doom & gloom, quite the flip side.

As I stalked up to the Market Street H&M, wristband slapped on, pickling myself in tea (5 cups before 10) I was giddy. Giddy at the thought of slipping into the chiffon, limbering into the lamé and caressing the cooling silk in order to satisfy the burning of the credit card in my pocket.

As I weaved between the overly loaded rails, I felt fit to burst. My pre-exam like nerves whipped away, I confidently strode into the fits, armed.

I liked it. More than Versace, more than Stella, more than Karl? It was fresh. Vibrant and wearable.

Fan-bloody-tastic bags. They must've cost a pretty penny.

Once these saddlebags are off, I'll be in those pantaloons faster than you can say Hennes & Mauritz.