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Class Reunion of a 65 year old lady....

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 forty 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 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 crepe caftan.

I gathered up all the goodies that I had purchased at Saks: 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" lips tick, 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 posterior" face cream. I set my hair on 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 , 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 buns?" Okay, so I had
to take baby steps, and walk sideways, and I couldn't move from my buns 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.