When I saw from the long-range forecasts that the temperatures in Las Vegas over the wedding weekend were going to average 110 degrees I decided to save the vintage dress for cooler weather, girded my loins, and went out shopping again. Actually, if I had time, I would have gone shopping in Las Vegas where there’s a clothing store every 15 feet, but because I wanted to reserve my L.V. time for my friends I went back to the only store in the area that carries a semi-decent selection of dresses and started trying things on. I swear I must have tried on 30 before I decided on the washable cotton blend (i.e., okay to sweat in) tropical-patterned dress pictured here.
Is it the designers or the store buyers who manage to fill the stores with hundreds of variations of the same dress, one guaranteed to make me look ridiculous? Practically everything in the kind-of-dressy-but-not-too section was high-waisted and very low cut, bordering on baby-doll, not, I repeat NOT, a good look for a certified grown-up. I did try on a few of that style, on the theory that 50,000 designers can’t be wrong, but evidently I have an oversize rib-cage so that empire dresses in my usual size were too tight around the waist-band, then puffed out unnaturally below. The size larger just hung on me like a muumuu. Nooooooooooo!!!
Even the dress I bought has a seam right under the bust although it’s shaped to have a natural waistline. The dress also has substantial shoulder straps, so I don't feel completely exposed. The neckline, though, is pretty low when filled with me instead of the dainty dress-form. I’m really tired of boobage, but since exposure was inevitable I decided to work it. With the help of a sold-state suspension device, aka push-up bra, from Victoria’s Secret and additional the spandex-enhanced cling of the dress I went to the wedding doing my best imitation of Liz Taylor in her “White Diamonds” period.
My efforts didn’t go unnoticed. As the party was winding down, after the champagne toast with the parents and grand-parents of the newly-weds and, oh, five or six tequila-shot toasts among the remaining rowdy bunch after the elders had departed, the groom, by way of good-bye, went face down in my cleavage, gave my bound and elevated bosom a couple of good squeezes, and announced, LOUDLY, that I had some “rock-hard titties” on me. I think he meant that as a compliment. The next day I had beard-burn on my chest.
Shortly after he made his startling announcement, the bride put him to bed – alone – and we, the women who remained standing, went out for a midnight snack. A good time was had by all.
No comments:
Post a Comment