I didn’t get the muumuu memo

I have a small waistline … relative to a land mass the size of Pangea just south of the belt border. With a gut in the front, and a very generous booty in the back, it’s hard to find a dress that doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief when it goes from the dressing room to the rack of shame. Let’s just say that I’m not a stranger to the sound of popping threads when I’m trying on clothes. I tend to be delusional overly optimistic when selecting a dress.

I love wearing sundresses in the summer. The feel of fabric swishing around my legs … the ventilation … the lack of discernible shape. I’m starting to see the benefits of the muumuu: a dress originated in Hawaii for women with the physique of a sumo wrester on steroids. I’m not alone in this regard.

Walking through the Uber-Mart the other day, I noted that the muumuu was a popular fashion decision. Uber-Mart has a strict dress code. Tuesdays are jeans skirt days, and for those of us who cannot find industrial strength double stitching, Thursdays are muumuu days. I didn’t get the memo, so it was quite by accident that I found myself in fashion compliance last week.

The advantages of a muumuu in Uber-Mart are obvious. You can scratch your back against a freezer door handle without attracting undue attention. (Those things are awesome back scratchers). Disadvantages: a very cold breeze on your lady parts when climbing up the shelves of said freezer to get the last stuffed portabllo Lean Cuisine.

Traditionally, a muumuu should have enough fabric to house a family of four. I’m proud to say that mine could only sleep two midgets and a wet golden retriever comfortably. (My apologies in advance to any Hawaiians for this unfortunate stereotype). I don’t wear leis, play the ukulele, or wail out songs that sound like there’s a gopher in heat nearby. My muumuus aren’t printed with flowers the size of mini-vans. Still, I want to thank the Hawaiians for this ugly yet functional piece of apparel.

I just wish they would call it something that doesn’t sound like a herd of holsteins. There’s no need to point out the correlation between cows and my figure.