carnival diet, reconsidered, fff #8

i'd planned to continue in the erotic vein of fff#7 with flash fiction friday #8 but somehow it didn't happen; maybe sex next week. but i did write (not sure if i like it yet) with inclusions:
gun, tonne, fun, plum, drum.

“3tonnes of fun…”
the words echoed in her head, bouncing off the inside of her mind, reverberating her skull between her ears louder than she thought possible for a repetition internally created by her own imagination. she looked into the mirror in disgust – or, at least, tried to, but only managed disgust at not feeling any. she knew she should be repelled by what looked back at her, but wasn’t. she tried to make herself feel the way she knew she should, but fell far short of appalled.
despairing of her ability to ever do what social mores required, she reconsidered what she wanted versus what everybody seemed to think appropriate. she thought of the gorgeous design she coveted, thought of the colours, the feathers, pictured herself in it, bumsee beating the drumbeat and bassline of sweet sweet soca across the savannah stage, and tried to hate that image, to no avail. she tried to picture herself in the alternate, the kit everybody else liked for her, military green – did it have anything fun? not colourful feathers or other pretty mas detailing – not a sequin in sight – did it even have a headpiece or a standard? she tried to remember the name of the section, it didn’t even sound exciting, something punny like “gun for the road”, something that didn’t make her feel to wine+jam or wave her flag or her rag or jump through the streets with wild abandon – and wasn’t carnival for that? playing yourself as you secretly desire, as you see yourself, knowing and not caring that nobody else sees you that way…shouldn’t she play whatever she wanted and who doh like it could lie down by it? if her shining flesh pressed into that sexy little costume made her feel the feelings then wasn’t that everything?
she turned so she could see her backside. she was sure females bigger than herself would be out there in bikinis+beads, why should she hide in shame she didn’t truly feel? because others (could they really be friends?) say she too big, say somebody her size have no business in a tribe costume, others don’t see the vision of her in fuschia+plum-coloured spandex and fringe and feathers and faux-jewels the way she did, as her right for the 2days of leggo, beautiful because it made her happy – could a festival purporting to celebrate national unity mean anything while discriminating against fatties? she secretly liked that word, liked her size, liked the way her ample, oiled skin looked when she stood at the mirror after she bathed, liked seeing her legs dimple coming out the bottom of her skirts, liked her big, round backside enough that she wore shorts for her own enjoyment – talk ‘bout bottom in the road!
she cultivated this size, didn’t just “let herself go”; she grew herself into her idea of beauty. but here it was, her first carnival playing mas, and people she considered close telling her she shouldn’t wear the costume she wanted.
she turned back to look at her front, debating whether she cared what anybody else thought of her very generous body. she tried again to summon those feelings of disgust that she knew others harboured, and still couldn’t. she tried to make herself feel bad but the more she stared, the more she liked what she saw. she fulfilled her idea of what a woman should be.
in that moment she knew her decision was made.
as her granny would say, “every mouldy bread have its stinkin’ cheese” – she loved herself as she was, would love herself even more in her tribe costume, and somebody else would love her too – fire bu’n the rest!

walk good.