Jenny
12-15-2001, 10:04 PM
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 agian 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,
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 girls in the Pantene ads.
Then the makeup -- the under eye "isn'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,
and "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. 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, Easy if you have
four hands.
But, with confidence, I put my arms into the bolsters, 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, swing, and lift, I captured the gliding
glands.
Quickly fastening the back of the bra, I stoodup 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. I decided to put on my sweats,
go fix myself a drink and skip the reunion.
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 agian 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,
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 girls in the Pantene ads.
Then the makeup -- the under eye "isn'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,
and "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. 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, Easy if you have
four hands.
But, with confidence, I put my arms into the bolsters, 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, swing, and lift, I captured the gliding
glands.
Quickly fastening the back of the bra, I stoodup 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. I decided to put on my sweats,
go fix myself a drink and skip the reunion.