Carla Gypsygirl's Blurty

Carla's Thighs...and other stories
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I have been surprised to notice that one of the things my friends have been remembering about my blog lately is my unfinished story about my thighs. They do not ask me, "How do you define your unique fashion style?" or "Can I tell you exactly why I think you are wonderful?" or "Would you like a donut?". I think those three questions would be some of my favourite questions in the world. No, my friends have been asking all about my thighs, and why a complete stranger told me that they were fat.

Of course, I am joking about my friends- they are all very caring beings. But they really HAVE been asking me about the thigh story. And a lady really DID tell me that my thighs were fat.

Let me begin my story by saying that I do not have fat thighs at all. I don't even think that my thighs are fat. So this isn't a pity story. Mostly I think that it's funny. So don't worry, I'm not going to go on a whinge about how women are expected to all look like stick figures, etc etc. What follows is merely an amusing story about my fat (or non fat, depending on your opinion) thighs.

It didn't start with a lady running up to me in the street and screaming, "Hey, thunder thighs!" No, it was much more subtle than that. It all began in my frenzied search for a job. Back last year in 2005, I was so desperate to leave my job that I began to apply for all sorts of strange jobs. You know, when you are looking at an ad for a marketing manager, and you think to yourself, "Oh, I watch TV and read magazines- I am so totally qualified for this job!" And so it came that I found myself applying for a fit model position at a fashion house that I admire. If you don't know what a fit (or 'house') model is, let me explain. A house model is someone who works for a fashion company. When the head fashion designer gets some of their initial patterns made up (these clothes are called 'samples'), the house model has to try them on. The house model is like a walking shop dummy. The head designer gets to see how their clothes fit on a real person, and then make adjustments to the clothes before they get mass-produced and sold.

When I saw that ad for the house model position, I was really excited because it was in a fashion house I wanted to work for. I figured that if I could get a job as a house model there, then I could slowly work my way up. As it turned out, I ended up also applying for an assistant fashion designer position there the very next week, but I also didn't get that job. Anyway, I had the exact measurements that the house model ad specified, and I called them up. I got a call back, and I went in for some official measuring by the pattern maker.

I arrived very early in the morning, feeling nervous and excitedly sneaky. Unfortunately, the experience wasn't nearly as glamourous as I had imagined. The design studio was not all white and slick. Instead, it was a rather gloomy, unfurnished space. All of the patternmakers were speaking Chinese to each other, and it felt like a sweatshop. The patternmaker (who was short, around 40 and her name was Jenny) took out a measuring tape, and began to measure me. After several minutes of silent measuring, Jenny asked me to change into some of their clothes. Again, the clothes were not what I expected. They were not nice. They were tight white pants and a black polyester halter top.

Jenny left the room and came back in again after I had changed. She scrutinised how I looked in the clothes, looking me up and down. And that's when it happened. She bent over, poked me on the left thigh and said, "You should do some exercises to lose fat from your thighs." I was so shocked that she had said this that I remained silent. My immediate thought, however, was, "COW!" And then, to prove her point, Jenny poked my left thigh again so that it wobbled. She said, "See? You have all this fat on the top of your thigh." I decided to take her comment lightly, and I laughed. Previous to these thigh-related comments, she also said, "You have very wide hips," to which I replied, "They're good for having children."

Jenny showed me out of the door and said (unconvincingly), "We'll call you." (For the record, she didn't.) As soon as I was a few blocks away, I called my boyfriend Geoff. I wailed, "Do I have fat thighs?" He said that I didn't. Then I whispered urgently, "Don't you DARE tell anyone that I called you about this. It will absolutely destroy my reputation for being totally comfortable with my body." However, I later questioned my friends and family about the status of my thighs. No-one said that they were fat.

ANYWAY, even though this story was very funny for me, I also felt that it had a few morals. First of all, I was surprised at how upset I was over someone's comment about my body. I realised that I was just as sensitive as any other girl when it came to my body image. After my conversation with Geoff, I realised how silly it was that I had told him not to tell anyone that I was a little upset. I was annoyed at myself for preferring to be falsely confident, rather than real. And even if I did have fat thighs, then so what? Why should it be such a problem? Having fat thighs wouldn't stop me from being kind, intelligent or funny. Sure, it would stop me from being a house model, but again, so what? I came to the conclusion that, whether or not they were fat, my thighs were still MY thighs. And I love them for how they are.

Okay, enough lecturing! Until later, readers. And of course, I am always happy to elaborate on stories...any requests?

Carla x
ps. As promised in my last post, here is a short description of my New Year's Eve. I spent the evening with my family that night. We went to my aunt's house in Neutral Bay, and we had a stellar view of the Harbour Bridge and the fireworks. As my aunt is rather bohemian (like, she eats couscous a lot and didn't let her son Max watch TV until he was around 5), she requested that all of the kids put on a musical performance. I ended up being the MC for that. Geoff and I also wrote and performed a song that night about how my brother Derrick sat on a chair that night, and how the chair broke under his bum because the chair was so old. Derrick was not very impressed.
pps. I also had another job interview today, argh! I will write more about it next post. Let me just say that I wanted the job so bad that I even wore pointy black high heels to the interview! Me, who lives in her pink Converse hi-tops!
ppps. My beautiful sister wrote about me in her blog today! Check it out! www.blurty.com/users/sons

***STOP PRESS AGAIN, DUDES!*** 13-1-06, 11:20pm
Okay, so as you know, I have 3 siblings: my baby brother (who is 9, and growing taller and taller), my "twin" sister, and my rock star brother. What you DON'T know, and what I didn't know until JUST NOW, is that my brother DERRICK (the rock star one) ALSO has a blog! As you can tell by my capital letters, I am pretty shocked about this. But his blog is too good for me to be shocked for long. As always, more explanations later. I will answer your questions after you check it out...http://www.blurty.com/users/derkobservatory
Until later! Whew! And to think that I just went on the Internet to check the train times!