The irony that is my life . . .

. . . never ceases to amaze me.

Three weeks ago, I bought a dress to wear for my cousin's wedding this coming Friday. It was a beautiful dress, a perfect dress, simply *the* best dress ever. And, it was on clearance for thirty bucks.

It just needed to be hemmed.

On Saturday, my mom and I went out and bought the wedding gifts, took them home and wrapped them.

So here I am, with the perfect dress and the perfect gift, ready a whole week ahead of time! ( This is well-nigh unheard-of. ) Last year, at another cousin's wedding, I was rushing to the store during the break between the ceremony and the reception, snapping up a gift and wrapping it in the car on the way down to the catering hall.

Anyway, Mom offered to help me pin up the hem on the dress, which seemed like a good idea.

Except . . . she starts pulling at the shoulders. "I thought you said that this dress *fit*."

"It *does* fit. Quit it."

"You're falling out of it."

"Push-up bra."

"No, go look in the mirror. It's too big."

So I trot off and see, yes . . . the dress is sliding off my shoulders, gaping at the bust, and bagging beneath the arms. What the fuck?!

Here's where the irony comes in.

Everyone gets on the scale from time to time and lets loose a string of expletives. However . . . when was the last time that several seconds' worth of creative profanity ended with, "Son of a *bitch*! I lost eleven pounds!"

*Lost.*

Not gained, which is my usual problem.

Crap.

And the world's most perfect dress ever will likely have to go right back to Lord & Taylor, as alterations may well ruin the lines of its construction.

Sigh. Now I have to find another dress. At the last minute. Again.

And I thought I was *prepared*.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.