The male species is often burdened by the need to provide a satisfactory answer to this trickiest and challenging question from the opposite sex, and I am speaking on behalf of men from all over the world. The question can vary according to circumstances but they are always intrinsically, about the same issue.
"Do I look fat in this dress?"
Sometimes it is "Does this make me look fat?" But whatever the variations that the question come in, it is always involving the F word. The failure to provide an appropriate (let's face it, the correct answer) reply may result in the denial of sex for the next two weeks, sometimes a pout that lasts for two days, sometimes a breakdown, sometimes a breakup and in some cases, divorce.
There is no greater challenge than the above mentioned question and this is further made impossible on instances when the preceding statement to the question involves putting our honesty at stake.
"Do I look fat in this dress? Be honest."
And then the male species would start to squirm and provide answers that would range from real honesty (Don't lie! Just tell me I am fat! I'm fat in this dress right?) to blatant lies (Don't lie! Just tell me I am fat! I'm fat in this dress right?)
Luckily for me, my two best girlfriends belong to the incredibly rare species of women who doesn't ask banal, vapid and let's face it, unnecessary questions when it comes to buying a dress. Or so I thought.
The three of us are at MaxMara yesterday because Star needed to find a dress for a cocktail party thrown by her boss. She went out of the dressing room wearing this teal peplum dress (the rage nowadays apparently), hands on her hips and she asked, "Do I look fat in this dress? Be honest."
"If you want honesty, ask a weighing machine," Melanie stared back, batting her eyelashes.
"Star, if you can fit in a dress, then you're not fat. Fat people don't wear dresses. they wear jeans and a giant Nike shirt with a giant tick across their chest that screams, "Yes I am fat and obese and this tick is an approval for the sorry state that I am in.""
The sales assistant serving Star giggled.
"Isn't it too early for fat jokes Harry?" Melanie smiled.
"It's true. Think about it. I love fat people. Without fat people, where would Popeye's be?" I replied.
The sales assistant laughed harder this time. She quickly recomposed herself and said, "Sorry."
"Hello, I am still here," Star raised her voice.
"Why are you suddenly asking these questions. I thought you're better off than those "Am I fat?" girls. You're turning into one of them aren't you?" Melanie said.
"It's not that. I just, I just feel like I have been pigging out for the past week rather crazily. I feel fat. I feel heavy. And my menses is coming, I feel bloated and uncomfortable. My nipples are swollen beyond hope. Oh you wouldn't understand!" Star sighed.
"You look great honey," Melanie assured her.
"Yeah. For every seven days of pigging, you have sex twice as much. That's a lot of cardio. Consider your weight unchanged. You might even have lost some. See, it helps to be a slut sometimes," I added.
"That weirdly made me feel better. Thanks asshole," Star said.
"Isn't it ironic that fat people wear oversized Nike shirts?" Melanie texted me that night.
I replied, "Buffet spread. Just do it."