Class reunion of a lady "of a certain age"
I had prepared for it like any intelligent woman would. I went on a
starvation diet the day before, knowing that all the extra weight would
just melt off in 24-hours, leaving me with my sleek, trim,
high-school-girl body. The last many years of careful cellulite
collection would just be gone with a snap of a finger. I knew if I
didn't eat a morsel on Friday, that I could probably fit into my senior
formal on Saturday.
Trotting up to the attic, I pulled the gown out of the garment bag,
carried it lovingly downstairs, ran my hand over the fabric, and hung it
on the door. I stripped naked, looked in the mirror, sighed, and
thought, "Well,okay, maybe if I shift it all to the back..." bodies
never have pockets where you need them.
Bravely, I took the gown off the hanger, unzipped the shimmering dress
and stepped gingerly into it. I struggled, twisted, turned, and pulled
and I got the formal all the way up to my knees... before the zipper
gave out. I was disappointed. I wanted to wear that dress with those
silver platform sandals again and dance the night away. Okay, one
setback was not going to spoil my mood for this affair. No way!
Rolling the dress into a ball and tossing it into the corner, I turned
to Plan B: the black velvet caftan.
I gathered up all the goodies that I had purchased at the drug store:
the scented shower gel; the body building and highlighting shampoo &
conditioner, and the split-end killer and shine enhancer. Soon my hair
would look like that girl's in the Pantene ads.
Then the makeup -- the under eye "ain't no lines here" firming cream,
the all-day face-lifting gravity-fighting moisturizer with wrinkle
filler spackle; the all day" kiss me till my lips bleed, and see if this
gloss will come off" lipstick, the bronzing face powder for that special
glow. But first, the roll-on facial hair remover. I could feel the
wrinkles shuddering in fear.
OK, time to get ready! I jumped into the steaming shower, soaped,
lathered, rinsed, shaved, tweezed, buffed, scrubbed and scoured my body
to a tingling pink. I plastered my freshly scrubbed face with the
anti-wrinkle, gravity fighting, "your face will look like a baby's butt"
face cream. I set my hair on the hot rollers. I felt wonderful. Ready to
take on the world. Or in this instance, my underwear.
With the towel firmly wrapped around my glistening body, I pulled outthe black lace, tummy-tucking, cellulite-pushing, ham hock-rounding
girdle, and the matching "lifting those bosoms like they're filled with
helium"bra. I greased my body with the scented body lotion and began the
plunge. I pulled, stretched, tugged, hiked, folded, tucked, twisted,
shimmied, hopped, pushed, wiggled, snapped, shook, caterpillar crawled
and kicked. Sweat poured off my forehead but I was done. And it didn't
look bad. So I rested. A well deserved rest, too.
The girdle was on my body. Bounce a quarter off my behind? It was
tighter than a trampoline. Can you say, "Rubber baby buggy bumper butt?"
Okay, so I had to take baby steps, and walk sideways, and I couldn't
move from my butt cheeks to my knees. But I was firm! Oh no...I had to
go to the bathroom. And there wasn't a snap crotch.
From now on, undies have to have a snap crotch! I was ready to rip it
open and re-stitch the crotch with Velcro, but the pain factor from past
experiments was still fresh in my mind. I quickly side stepped to the
bathroom.
An hour later, I had answered nature's call and repeated the struggle
into the girdle. I was ready for the bra. I remembered what the
saleslady said to do. I could see her glossed lips mouthing, "Do not
fasten the bra in the front, and twist it around. Put the bra on the way
it should be worn--straps over the shoulders. Then bend over and gently
place both breasts inside the cups."
Easy if you have four hands. But, with confidence, I put my arms into
the holsters, bent over and pulled the bra down...but the boobs weren't
cooperating. I'd no sooner tuck one in a cup, and while placing the
other, the first would slip out. I needed a strategy. I bounced up and
down a few times, tried to dribble them in with short bunny hops, but
that didn't work. So, while bent over, I began rocking gently back and
forth on my heel and toes and I set 'em to swinging. Finally, on the
fourth swing, pause, and lift, I captured the gliding glands. Quickly
fastening the back of the bra, I stood up for examination. Back
straight, slightly arched, I turned and faced the mirror, turning front,
and then sideways. I smiled. Yes, Houston, we have lift up! My breasts
were high, firm and there was cleavage!
I was happy until I tried to look down. I had a chin rest. And I
couldn't see my feet.
I still had to put on my pantyhose, and shoes. Oh...why did I buy heels
with buckles? Then I had to pee again.
I put on my sweats, fixed myself a drink, ordered pizza, and skipped the
reunion.
I had prepared for it like any intelligent woman would. I went on a
starvation diet the day before, knowing that all the extra weight would
just melt off in 24-hours, leaving me with my sleek, trim,
high-school-girl body. The last many years of careful cellulite
collection would just be gone with a snap of a finger. I knew if I
didn't eat a morsel on Friday, that I could probably fit into my senior
formal on Saturday.
Trotting up to the attic, I pulled the gown out of the garment bag,
carried it lovingly downstairs, ran my hand over the fabric, and hung it
on the door. I stripped naked, looked in the mirror, sighed, and
thought, "Well,okay, maybe if I shift it all to the back..." bodies
never have pockets where you need them.
Bravely, I took the gown off the hanger, unzipped the shimmering dress
and stepped gingerly into it. I struggled, twisted, turned, and pulled
and I got the formal all the way up to my knees... before the zipper
gave out. I was disappointed. I wanted to wear that dress with those
silver platform sandals again and dance the night away. Okay, one
setback was not going to spoil my mood for this affair. No way!
Rolling the dress into a ball and tossing it into the corner, I turned
to Plan B: the black velvet caftan.
I gathered up all the goodies that I had purchased at the drug store:
the scented shower gel; the body building and highlighting shampoo &
conditioner, and the split-end killer and shine enhancer. Soon my hair
would look like that girl's in the Pantene ads.
Then the makeup -- the under eye "ain't no lines here" firming cream,
the all-day face-lifting gravity-fighting moisturizer with wrinkle
filler spackle; the all day" kiss me till my lips bleed, and see if this
gloss will come off" lipstick, the bronzing face powder for that special
glow. But first, the roll-on facial hair remover. I could feel the
wrinkles shuddering in fear.
OK, time to get ready! I jumped into the steaming shower, soaped,
lathered, rinsed, shaved, tweezed, buffed, scrubbed and scoured my body
to a tingling pink. I plastered my freshly scrubbed face with the
anti-wrinkle, gravity fighting, "your face will look like a baby's butt"
face cream. I set my hair on the hot rollers. I felt wonderful. Ready to
take on the world. Or in this instance, my underwear.
With the towel firmly wrapped around my glistening body, I pulled outthe black lace, tummy-tucking, cellulite-pushing, ham hock-rounding
girdle, and the matching "lifting those bosoms like they're filled with
helium"bra. I greased my body with the scented body lotion and began the
plunge. I pulled, stretched, tugged, hiked, folded, tucked, twisted,
shimmied, hopped, pushed, wiggled, snapped, shook, caterpillar crawled
and kicked. Sweat poured off my forehead but I was done. And it didn't
look bad. So I rested. A well deserved rest, too.
The girdle was on my body. Bounce a quarter off my behind? It was
tighter than a trampoline. Can you say, "Rubber baby buggy bumper butt?"
Okay, so I had to take baby steps, and walk sideways, and I couldn't
move from my butt cheeks to my knees. But I was firm! Oh no...I had to
go to the bathroom. And there wasn't a snap crotch.
From now on, undies have to have a snap crotch! I was ready to rip it
open and re-stitch the crotch with Velcro, but the pain factor from past
experiments was still fresh in my mind. I quickly side stepped to the
bathroom.
An hour later, I had answered nature's call and repeated the struggle
into the girdle. I was ready for the bra. I remembered what the
saleslady said to do. I could see her glossed lips mouthing, "Do not
fasten the bra in the front, and twist it around. Put the bra on the way
it should be worn--straps over the shoulders. Then bend over and gently
place both breasts inside the cups."
Easy if you have four hands. But, with confidence, I put my arms into
the holsters, bent over and pulled the bra down...but the boobs weren't
cooperating. I'd no sooner tuck one in a cup, and while placing the
other, the first would slip out. I needed a strategy. I bounced up and
down a few times, tried to dribble them in with short bunny hops, but
that didn't work. So, while bent over, I began rocking gently back and
forth on my heel and toes and I set 'em to swinging. Finally, on the
fourth swing, pause, and lift, I captured the gliding glands. Quickly
fastening the back of the bra, I stood up for examination. Back
straight, slightly arched, I turned and faced the mirror, turning front,
and then sideways. I smiled. Yes, Houston, we have lift up! My breasts
were high, firm and there was cleavage!
I was happy until I tried to look down. I had a chin rest. And I
couldn't see my feet.
I still had to put on my pantyhose, and shoes. Oh...why did I buy heels
with buckles? Then I had to pee again.
I put on my sweats, fixed myself a drink, ordered pizza, and skipped the
reunion.
