Angel's Craft
"THE CLASS REUNION"
By
a 40+-year-old woman ["I think someone peeked while I dressed…"]
This
is a true story. For those who are still too young, just sit back and laugh.
Your turn will come...
I
had prepared for the class reunion 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 bodybuilding and highlighting shampoo & conditioner, and
the split-end-welder 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.
Okay--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 out the black, lacy, tummy-tucking,
cellulite-pushing, hamhock-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 gotta have a snap crotch. I was ready to rip it open and re-stitch
the crotch with Velcro. But the pain factor from similar 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--with straps over the
shoulders, 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 heels 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. Why did I buy heels with buckles?
And
then I had to pee again.
Think
I'll go fix myself a drink and skip the %#$@! reunion!
Courtesy
of Judy
DAM CONTROL or THE WEDDING TRAP
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