Josephine rummaged through her closet in search of the perfect outfit. She passed by the size 8 with impossibly firm 34C breasts, washboard waist, boyish hips and a hint of fake tan. She was tired of wearing these highly stylised garments - she wanted something more natural. She took down a hanger for a closer look at the outfit she last wore to her sister's wedding. It was a petite size 10 with a modest B cup and curvaceous hips. It's olive complexion had made her feel like she had stepped off the cover of Italian Vogue with a simpering pout. She had looked as delicious as a baked pear drizzled with acacia honey. She felt the suppleness of the hand-moisturised skin and held it up to the mirror. She sighed and put it back in the closet. It didn't feel quite right. She agonised over the remaining garments. The broad shouldered one she wore to work was too tall and commanding. The one she wore to the gym too toned and masculine. She would have to go shopping.
Down the crowded high street she trudged, vainly looking at the mannequins in the shop windows but she couldn't see anything she liked. Either the breasts were too pointy or the hips too high atop bean pole legs. Nothing said 'natural'. Even the so-called bohemian garments were too contrived. Desperate to find what she craved she turned down a side street with small boutique shops filled with vintage garments whose proportions had long since ceased to be trendy. She went into a shop with sumptuous velvet furnishings and gilt-edged mirrors and explained her predicament to the aloof shop assistant. He said nothing but nodded and walked briskly to the back of the shop and returned holding a size 16 with an hourglass figure. Josephine was reluctant to try it on - it was so much larger than the rest of her garments - but the assistant placed it in her hands and ushered her towards the changing room. 'Trust me dahhhhling,' he said before swishing the velvet curtain closed.
Josephine marveled at the garment, turning to inspect every angle, running her hands appreciatively over its curves. There was a slight ripple of cellulite on the thighs and buttocks, the waist felt relaxed and roomy. The breasts sagged slightly under their own weight, their surface patterned with a light spiderweb of scars. The skin tone was pale with a rosy tint. 'This,' she thought, 'will be perfect.'
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