Lululemon. A store that doesn’t believe in capital letters and yet it has quite an army of unkind yogic defenders. I wrote, a bit tongue in cheek as always, my observations of the fancy athletic store on a recent trip to Miami. A bit of country mouse goes to the big city; she gets a view outside her snow globe that isn’t limited to a few thousand folks, who come to find out, are so much nicer than the big wide world. Maybe it’s Edenton or perhaps, just North Carolinians, but we do love one another.

Even if people were to think a size twelve meant one was fat, we have all been properly schooled on the importance of good manners. Basic etiquette dictates that, “if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing.” As long as my little people aren’t the subject of criticism, I can honestly giggle with the lulu obsessed squad being mad at me. I love a good ornery squabble, just ask my husband. Anyways, back to the twelve.

Now, I would like all the folks claiming 12 as fat to please, step into the light, like Carol Ann light. In fact, as an educated debutante, I would like to argue that it is concretely false. Isn’t it? Have I been fat all this time and no one has told me? What about my doctors? I see a bunch and none have lectured me on the food pyramid. Maybe I have too much confidence? I do think I look pretty good and sometimes have trouble identifying myself in pictures.

Hmmm. Plump perhaps, a bit robust, a specimen of the Elizabethan period? Maybe. But, very fat? I say no, absolutely not, nyet, no way Jose, nada, uh uh, never. I cry foul on this one and if you disagree, you risk being consumed by an angry mob on your doorstep. I have always wanted to lead a charge and let me just say, there are more of us than there are of you, so ha.