Size Matters

At my very thinnest, I'm a size 27. That's like, "Adderall + 2x a day at the gym" thin. Usually I'm a 28 but when I'm quite fat, I'm a 29.

 

I don't mind sharing this info because I think I'm fairly normal and because Eva Mendes says she has the exact same measurements. And I like Eva Mendes, mostly because my very favorite boyfriend, Penguin, said that I reminded him of her. I have no idea why I'd remind him of a big-toothed cuban woman but whatever, she's hot and it was probably just his concussion talking anyway.

My point in revealing my size is that, as you know, I have always believed that celebrities lie wildly about how big they are. Kirstie Alley a 4?! Kim K a 2?! BITCH PLEASE. But I also believed that these kind of insane self-delusions were also confined to the celebrity world.

See, even Forevs knows Kim is a lying butterball!

Not so.

Yesterday morning at the gym, the girl changing next to me pulled out a new pair of Uniqlo jeans with the tag still on them. They were a 26.

This girl was not a 26. If I had to fit her, I'd say a 30/31. She had thick legs and a flat ass (such a sad combo) kind of like Sammi from Jersey Shore. THICK. Jennifer Aniston is a 26.

I dawdled getting ready because I had to see with my own eyes, in real time, this girl try to wriggle into size twentyfuckingsize. And it was not a pretty sight.

Tugging, heaving, sweating–she got the majority of her workout just getting dressed! And when she finally poured her tree-trunk body into those itty bitty pants, she looked just dreadful. Her ass was flattened out even more and muffin top burst forth from her waistband like lava spewing out of a volcano.

I honestly don't know how she sat or even walked around. It looked so uncomfortable and of course, hideously unsexy. I'll wear a car cover before I'll subject myself to that.