This choice: It is time to go to the party, but the dress won't fit! • Go Back...Chapter #4It is time to go to the party, but the dress wo... by: crazygary   Madison looked up from the crumpled remains of a couple of Big Macs, her favorite drunken meal, and glanced at the clock in the center console of the brand new white Mercedes CLK AMG. Yikes! She had let the time get away from her at the bar of a chain restaurant. Although, it was known more for its pancakes than it's Long Island iced teas, Madison preferred drinking there because she knew that she would never run into any acquaintances. She had few friends these days and had become a bit of a recluse, her out of control weight being a large blow to her once shining self-confidence and bubbly personality. When she did interact, it was usually with some of Steven's cadre of yuppie friends, or as they liked to be called, "young professionals."
Grabbing a fry from between the crease of her constantly touching thighs and popping it into her mouth, Madison put her spaceship-like vehicle hastily into reverse. She was really hoping to wait out and soak up her buzz with fatty food. But damn, it had gotten so late.
She was taking a major risk by driving in her still drunken state, but as is so often the case, the alcohol still very active in her system impaired her judgment. Madison struggled to keep things in her path from cloning themselves in her vision.
As the saying goes, “everybody get’s one,” and Madison got hers in not being pulled over on her way home from Mcdonalds. Stumbling through the entryway, she did not expect to see Steven, who chastised her for making them late for the party.
Ridiculous, she thought, the nerve of that foul man, especially hating how the veins in his forehead popped out when he was angry. She found it grotesque how they continued up his shiny scalp, ravaged it was by male pattern baldness.
He had been handsome once, but now he seemed like an ogre to Madison. She wasn’t sure whether it was his aged appearance that caused her to look at Steven differently, or if her more learned experience with his dysfunctional personality painted him in a more dubious light. This wasn’t what she had signed up for, but then again, events had transpired which Steven had cause for grievance with as well.
From Steven’s point of view, Madison, his beautiful and voluptuous young Latino wife had turned into a total pig before his very eyes. Sure, she had a fair amount of junk in the trunk, by the time they met, and he had seen old photos of when she had really blown up in college, but she had to be even larger than that now. Madison had an even bigger beer gut than that fat fuck Larry from accounting.
The woman he had married was practically a health nut. Steven had been more than happy to pay for her thrice-weekly Bikram yoga classes and expensive Nike running gear. He had even paid for a fitness room to be added onto his already spacious 3-bedroom six-bath house in a great neighborhood. Now he had lost 15 pounds and was running up to 6 miles daily, training for a marathon, while Madison’s elliptical machine gathered dust in the corner.
She used to be a vegetarian, only drinking biologically diverse white wine with meals, but now he had decided to turn a blind eye to the astronomical bar tabs on her visa. Steven figured he might as well own a fast food restaurant for the level of those receipts alone.
Under the guise of becoming a wine connoisseur, he had allowed Madison to sign up for a mail order “Distinct Wine List” subscription. Stains everywhere now, two new sofas.
Steven found her appearance to be disheartening. While he disliked yelling at her, he had always had a bit of a temper and it made him distressed to see her this way, clearly drunk, with smeared make up, standing in the hall with her pants unbuttoned. Her fucking stomach was literally oozing out of the too-small trousers. He could see her ass from the front. The t-shirt, sporting a fashionable Chanel logo, hardly recognizable across the chest, was hardly much better. She had fifteen minutes, and that was final.
Upstairs, in the master bedroom closet, Madison scrolled through her clothing hung on a powered rack. There it was, the fateful Prada dress, the dreaded rag. She didn’t even think it was pretty anymore.
What was the big deal about Prada anyway? They had to seriously get over themselves. All these yuppies were so materialistic, only concerned with conspicuous consumption, keeping up with the Jones’. Madison seriously considered not even attempting to put on the clearly under-sized garment. Deep down, though, she knew she had to.
Standing before a full-length mirror, forced to confront her countenance for aid in navigating the red cocktail dress up the treacherous slopes of her stout frame, Madison struggle to pull the haute couture past her fat thighs. The dress had refused to move past a point barely above her dimpled knees. Frustrated beyond all belief, Madison gave one final tug, and that was when she heard the first horrid sound of ripping fabric.
“Fuck it, she thought.” This damned thing was going on anyways, rips, or no rips, but as she would find, definitely rips. With the first tear allowing for the dress to come up to her butt, Madison now struggled to pull it over her lumpy rear. Finally it went, but at the expense of a rip in the hindquarters, exposing her pink panties and jiggly cheeks.
Next was the belly, or the Battle of the Bulge, as one might call it. Madison was really having a hard time fitting the front-piece over her huge gut. The dress zipped up the sides and was strapless with an open back, she was simply too wide for it, but damned if she didn’t try her best.
She broke both the zippers and burst into tears, running down the stairs to find that Steven had left without her, on her fucking 28th birthday.
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