Arse on film (2 minutes later)

So ... after reading Botox's voluble praise of the latest maxi-dress craze, I took myself off to my local town to try out this magical transformation for myself.
So swishy, so skimmy on the hanger -- just as she described!!! And when I tried a few styles on ... WOW! I was amazed! All that denial, all those depressing Fat Club visits, all those running sessions (yes, at 44 I have started to run and my God does it pay to go out early. Around 6.30am is best. Before anyone can see you. Before anyone younger, fitter and more toned and honed can clock you for the old banger that you are and brush past you with a sidelong sneer and a flash of NIKE trainers which seem to say "Eat my dust fucker! Get back to GMTV and Cash in the Attic, why don't you?" But I will not be brow-beaten into giving in.
Shortly
So, back in the running shop, the super-fit South African shop assistant had looked me up and down before pronouncing lip-curlingly, 'You? You are going to start running???" He barely suppressed a smug grin as I hotly and fatly tried to ease off my high-heeled sling-backs in order to try on a pair of running shoes. "Strange choice of shoe to come out in", he smirked.
What the feck does he know about being a 44 year old 5ft 1 tubby middle-aged woman???? We can't all get away with flatties mate, some of us are short and need all the extra leg-length we can get in order to keep from rolling along, weeble-like, along the high street.
Dwarf feet
Anyway, to add to my shame, the Fit Smiling Man (FSM) brings out a pair of KID's trainers ... so my size 3 feet are not allowed to be stylish OR fit at the same time. Obviously. Well, I am a bit of an ex-goth so the idea of SILVER metallic trainers with PURPLE piping and unattractive swooshes and swatches REALLY does not appeal to me at all. But he hasn't finished with me yet, Oh no no no. Next thing I know I have been taken to the Running Treadmill in THE MIDDLE OF THE FECKIN SHOP (afterwards to be referred to as The Belt of Shame). In broad daylight. Under bright lights. Amongst superfit tanned laughing people. He asks me to step on, wearing my child's size flashing neon trainers, and ... run.
Run away from the running shop!
Now I know this may sound weird, seeing as I've gone into a running shop in order to purchase running equipment, in order to run. but the IDEA of running in front of him and My Man (MM) suddenly leaves me absolutely petrified. I can feel the sweat beading on my brow before we even start. So the FSM asks me cheerily to 'hop on' (bloody sadist -- he must get REAL kick out of this side of his job) and he starts the machine at what he calls a 'slow pace'. Fuckinell. I thought I was going to go off the back Norman Wisdom style. So he is fiddling with buttons and a bloody special CAMERA for feck's sake (in order to track my running style apparently) and all the time I am aware I am running and panting and heaving and sweating and my huge boulder-like buttocks are bouncing and pounding after me like 2 mad outsize potatoes jumping up and down inside a denim sack. In broad daylight. In a high street shop.
Then the FSM says "I'll just pop it up a pace" (He IS definitely a sadist or perhaps a Jumping potato voyeur ...?) BUT all those thoughts have to be ignored, because now I am really having to exert myself. To run. Not just like a quick skitter for the tube or bus, or a quick jog after a toddler at the beach; a real proper run for my body's first time in about 30 years. My body is in shock but I am pounding on. All the time FSM is saying "Just a minute more ... just one minute more". (Is he fondling himself through those sky-blue nylon trackies???) Then he puts it up ANOTHER notch and I'm sure he is getting off on this. At last he slows down the treadmill to a walking pace and it grinds to a halt and I feel hot, dishevelled and humiliated.
Arse on film (2 minutes later)
THEN i have to stand there, in the shop, whilst he analyzes my 'running technique' . Snort. i didn't know I could run until today, let alone have a 'technique'. I am panting with effort after what to him is probably equivalent to a walk round Sainsbury's. Embarrassing as this is, watching my chubby legs FILMED FROM BEHIND he then takes me through my posture, muscles and 'pronation' to diagnose how shit and unfit I am. Ha ha. But he is non-plussed. He keeps saying "It's really unusual ... and you've never run before? Very rare to see this etc. etc" It turns out I am one of the world's 10% with a natural running technique. Totally! So that wiped the smile off his tanned fit face and he was bemused and amazed which was almost worth all the pain.)
Longest parenthesis EVER
Anyway, I digress. So to get back to the fact that yes, all those running sessions have started to pay off. (By the way, I DID manage to find black Nike running trousers, black top and black socks, but had to settle for WHITE sports bra and hideous purple/silver trainers. So uncool.) So I tried on three Maxi dresses and all of them looked great! Figure skimming and sexy and i WANTED them all badly but of course settled for the black one as Botox so wisely recommends. Only thing is, the maxi-dress is 5ft 10 and I am only 5ft 1 ... so rather than playing gothic princesses, my lovely dress is currently with the brilliant Eastern-European tailors in town. I'm hoping a few inches off the bottom doesn't take away any of its glory.