The last time I wore non-plus size clothes Clinton was in office. I had been confined to shopping at stores packed with elastic waisted pants and matronly frocks that made me look like Lulu from Duke’s of Hazzard, a woman known not so much for her sense of style but rather the size of it. In April of this year, “regular people” clothes started fitting. That first non-plus size, size 14 golf skirt that zipped snuggly around my hips at Dick’s Sporting Goods started a shopping frenzy that ended with me buying a pair of ripped up faded jeans encrusted with rhinestone crosses on the back pockets and a pair of cowboy boots that had red roses and turquoise hummingbirds up the sides. I looked more like a modern-day female version of Porter Wagonner than the conservative CPA I am.

A few weeks ago, I ended up in the dressing room at Anthropology. All the hip, trendy girls I know shop there. When you see a girl with a unique sense of style, kind of boho chic, that’s typically where she comes from. I decided it was time to venture to the place where the in-crowd bought their sophisticated styles. Being a size fourteen, and on the top side of it at that, I am still nervous about shopping at regular stores. There’s that moment in the dressing room where you think, “Oh Lord, don’t let that zipper bust or the side seam split.” “How will I explain this rip to the anorexic sales clerk?” “Can I just buy it half stuck over my head because it ain’t coming off without dislocating my collarbone and arms?”

So here I was in the fitting room of what looked like a virtual who’s who of the latest trendsetters. The moment I had dreamed of happened. I tried on a patchwork patterned shift dress with three quarter length sleeves and tiny gold buttons. It fit. Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I had been buying “regular” clothes for a while but this was different. This dress was young, fun, and trendy, a term I had longed to be associated with. I paid the clerk as she wrapped the dress in amber-colored tissue paper placing it in an Anthropolgy bag. It was my membership card to the cool club.

This past Sunday at Church, I wore the dress completing the look with the highest, hottest pair of cork heels you’ve ever laid your eyes on, a long gold beaded chain necklace and Kim Kardashian bun atop my head. You should have seen me. Any moment, I expected a phone call from Marie Claire magazine requesting a photoshoot.

Walking out of Sunday School, I stopped to chat with some choir members waiting to enter the sanctuary and lead morning worship. As I caught up on the latest choir news, I leaned against the wall like the cool head cheerleader in high school leaning up against the lockers envied by all the other girls crowded around. Then, out of nowhere, for no reason at all, I gave new meaning to the phrase “drop it like it’s hot”. I fell head first, sprawling out in the floor. I’ve heard of slain in the spirit but this was ridiculous.

As I quickly jumped to my feet hoping and praying no one saw what my gynecologist sees once a year, one of the onlookers asked if I was ok. “Yes, yes, if no one saw my panties, I am”. Thank goodness, no one did or at least, they had the common decency to lie even though we were in Church.

I learned a valuable lesson in that hallway Sunday morning, high heels and vanity are a recipe for disaster.

Proverbs 16:18 Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughtily spirit before a fall. (Literally!)image