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The 45th Class Reunion

E-MAIL | 26 Aug 2003 | Unknown

I had prepared for this event 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."

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 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 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 and 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 clevage.

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 damned reunion.