Judged

“Shit, the party starts in an hour, and I still haven’t decided what to wear.”

“Well, you better hurry up then.”

“But I don’t like anything I own. Nothing fits properly.”

“Is it because of the clothes…”

“What?”

“Or because of the couple of extra kilos you have put on?”

“I haven’t…”

“Yes, you have. Don’t try to deny it.”

“You noticed?”

“Of course I did. It’s quite funny, really, how you try to suck your belly in and stand up straighter. Or how you have to lie down on the bed to fasten your jeans. Or…”

“Stop. I know I have put on a bit of extra pudding. But it’s not very kind to point it out.”

“Who else will point it out if I won’t? Others are too polite to say anything, but I bet they have noticed it too.”

“Do you really think so? It’s only a few kilos.”

“So far, but I think you are on a slippery slope. It might be just a few kilos now, but how much will it be in a few months, a year?”

“Oh, shut up! I don’t have time for this now. Maybe I’ll wear the blue dress.”

“I wouldn't. It squashes your tits.”

“Squashes my tits? What on earth do you mean? Never mind. Don't answer that. Perhaps the yellow one then.”

“Not great with your pasty skin.”

“So now you have a problem with my skin, too.”

“No, I don’t have a problem with it. You do. Maybe you should start to look after yourself better now that you are middle-aged.”

“Middle-aged! I’m not there yet.”

“Perhaps not on paper, but those wrinkles and that midriff. The boobs are not anywhere near as perky as they used to be, either.”

“This is just getting worse. You are supposed to be helping me get ready, not making me feel really shit about myself.”

“Sorry, I will try to keep my thoughts to myself.”

“That would be brilliant. Maybe the green or red dress.”

“The green makes your bum look even bigger than it is, and the red is too tight on the belly.”

“I thought you were going to keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Only trying to be helpful.”

“Well, you are not. I'd better go with the stripy dress, then.”

“A good choice. The stripes have a slimming effect.”

“I just realised. You said make my bum even bigger than it is. Is it really that big?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

“No! Forget that. Right, that's the dress sorted. And I’ll go with the black boots.”

“Next, make up.”

“Yes, make up. Hold on, what do you mean by saying ‘next, make up’ with that tone of voice? Are you saying that I couldn’t go to the party without makeup?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“You wouldn’t recommend it. Of course you wouldn’t. What would you recommend then?”

“For starters, do something about those bags under the eyes. And that spot right in the middle of your chin.”

“Bags, spots? Anything else you want to point out that is wrong with me?”

“Again, do you really want to know? Because if you do, I will tell you. I’m nothing but honest.”

“I sometimes wish you weren’t so bloody honest. And no, I don’t really want to know. I’ll just layer on the concealer and foundation; that should cover it up. Then add a bit of sparkle on the eyes, bright red lips, and lashings of mascara.”

“You have always had beautiful lashes.”

“What, did you just say something nice about me?”

“I believe I did.”

“That was nice to hear.”

“Don’t get too used to it. There’s plenty more criticism to come.”

“Why do you always have to be so hard on me?”

“Somebody has to say it how it is.”

“I don’t always need to hear it how it is. Sometimes I want white lies.”

“And did the white lies ever benefit anyone?”

“I don’t care about anyone else. They would benefit me! Hugely, especially as I’m about to go out and for once I would love to feel good about myself.”

“If you want to feel good about yourself, then do something about it. Maybe try exercising once in a while or not having that late-night snack. Oh, and here’s something that might work wonders on those bags under your eyes: get a decent night’s sleep once in a while. Better yet, every night.”

“I’d bloody love to exercise more and sleep eight hours every night, but…”

“There you go again with your excuses. If it's not this, it's that. I’m so bored with listening to your made-up reasons.”

“They are not made-up. They are real!”

“They are not, and you know it. Don’t try that bullshit with me.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“Oh, but it is. What? What now? Are those tears? Careful, you’ll ruin your makeup.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to the party now, anyway. You’ve made me feel like shit, so I’m staying home.”

“To drink beer and order a takeaway? What will it be tonight? A pizza? A burger with fries. Neither will do any favours to that ever-expanding waistline.”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I fucking hate you.”

“Oh, now look what you’ve done. That’s going to be seven years of bad luck for you.”