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"I've got everything I've always had. Only it's six inches lower."
I received this from a friend which I think is hilarious. I'm seriously
considering changing the dress code to costume again!!
Now I hope no one takes it seriously and settles for a pizza instead
of an exciting night! The dress code on board the ship will be business
casual, ties not really necessary and formal wear not required!
Now the challenge: Any male writers from our class who can write a
comparable story from a man's point of view? If so, please mail it to me.br>
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My high school 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 bodybuilding
and highlighting shampoo & conditioner, and the split-end killer and shine
enhancer. Soon my hair would look like that girl's in the Pentane 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 out the
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 gotta 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 sidestepped 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.
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