I went today to try on a new dress that I have ordered. It’s a lovely dress in a very dark chocolate colour satin (it looks almost black) trimmed with lovely silver embroidary. I saw it in the catalogue last year and immediately fell in love with it. They are made to order, so it has been about two and a half months since I was measured. I haven’t changed in weight much, but imagine how disappointed I am to find out that weight is nothing; fat distribution is everything. My bum has shrunk, as has my bust. I don’t know what this is at the expense of, but I was certainly a little crestfallen by this. I’m going tomorrow for a visit to the seamstress for alterations.
This is the result of my Endochronologist. He seems morbidly afraid of having me on the correct dose of HRT. Instead, he seems determined to keep me on a maintenance dose suitable for a 60 year old plus post menopausal woman, rather than the thirty year old little darling *ahem* that I am. It doesn’t help that the change in dose coincided with a change in type, which turned out to be totally ineffective. Consequently I am, in effect, going through yet another menopause just like the fateful one I had aged 25. Jenny is not amused.
Still, nothing that a rubber diving costume with the bottom cut out and a bucket of soapy frogs could not fix. That’s for the Endo, by the way, not me. He is not on my christmas card list, shall we say? The dress is for the upcoming HBA awards for which I am put forward for the radio drama that I wrote and recorded. It also means that I probably should look at whether my wedding dress for my upcoming civil partnership still fits. I shall be very angry if that requires alterations too.