Yes, That Is a Fat Joke

Sometimes it's fun to shake things up a little. I enjoy doing so by cracking a joke.

I probably ought to be a little more sensitive to the fact that some people are not familiar with my particular sense of humor. (Or the very real possibility that my humor may not, in fact, be funny.)

Regardless, I still like to throw people off with this little one: Is that a fat joke?

This might need to be originally attributed to Weston, a high school buddy with a delightfully off-the-wall sense of what was funny.  A very fit guy, Weston made for a pretty hilarious site when he'd ask, straight faced, "Is that a fat joke?"

And although I'm not as fit as Weston was at the time, sometimes I do it now too. It just makes me giggle. It stops conversations in their tracks as everyone scrambles frantically for a politically correct way to exit the sudden awkwardness.

I know it's bad karma, but sometimes it's just a funny little way to make everyone lighten up. After they realize I'm not serious, of course.

Unfortunately, I was serious when we went shopping in shopping in Buenos Aires. I had taken full advantage of the freedom the spandex leggings offered just the night before and...well, let's just say there was comsumption of alfajores. At 2am. Stolen from the cake stand in the hotel bar.

Yes, stolen. By me. What else was I going to eat while Brendon had his 2am pizza? And I did ask first at the lobby desk if I could have one. Poor guy, he said there weren't any. He probably saw the tired, ravenous look on my face and thought, "Protect the desserts!"

Does anyone else out there make poor eating decisions when they have more than one drink? Am I alone in this? I wish I was a Drink & Dial person; Drink & Scarf is kinda embarassing.

Well, as we walked away and then past the bar, I SAW them there...before I knew it, we were in our crazy awesome room (thank you for the free upgrade, Home Hotel! You are truly the best), practically delirious from having eaten dinner so incredibly late and then going out afterwards (how do the porteños keep such hours, honestly?) and we were scarfing delicious pizza and alfajores like there was no tomorrow.

A room with a view...outside. Pay no attention to the spoils from the previous night!

But tomorrow came.

Stretchy pants again for the morning after

And yeah, I wasn't feeling super fit or lean while we went shopping. We had been excited to check out the fancy shops of this incredible city for so long, and at first it was exciting. Everything was just so fun to check out, the leather was fabulous, the spring fashion was beautiful, the shoes amazing.

But then we got tired. And then it wasn't so fun. Everything was pretty pricy. The store employees followed us around. It was hot. And everything was tiny. Sizes just didn't seem to be able to stand up to our generous American frames, especially after a late night pizza/alfajor indulgence.

Unfortunately, one shop attendent felt it necessary to tell me that he thought a shirt wouldn't fit. And that I couldn't understand him when he said so.

"We don't have that top in a bigger size," he told me. "That's the only one we have, and there aren't any bigger ones. Why don't you try this one instead?"

Ahem?

He repeated himself several times, and I had no difficulty with his Spanish. But then I don't think he misunderstood me either when I tossed the top on the floor, spun around, and called out to Brendon that we were leaving. No language barrier there.

It was definitely a fat joke.

I was fuming. And then, magically, once we were back in our hotel room, showered, and happily eating our dinner-salad, no wine (ahhh vegetables!)--it seemed quite funny. That poor, lanky, stylish man, trying to explain to a sweating, cranky, um "curvy" girl that he didn't want her to rip his inventory.

We laughed over our bean sprouts and marveled at the fact that we could not be brought to purchase anything while on our much-anticipated shopping excursion. Every time we saw anything we liked, we just kinda backed off. There just wasn't anything that either of us had to have.

And giggling together in those fluffy bathrobes while enjoying a vegetarian room service dinner at the American hour of 6pm, it just didn't matter.

Sorry, Buenos Aires, but turns out we just came for the experience. You can keep your tiny tops and pricey purses.