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[FONT='Calibri','sans-serif']<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com
fficeffice" /><o> </o>[/FONT]<TABLE class=MsoNormalTable border=0 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0><TBODY><TR><TD style="PADDING-BOTTOM: 0in; PADDING-LEFT: 0in; PADDING-RIGHT: 0in; PADDING-TOP: 0in" vAlign=top><TABLE class=MsoNormalTable border=0 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0><TBODY><TR><TD style="PADDING-BOTTOM: 0in; PADDING-LEFT: 0in; PADDING-RIGHT: 0in; PADDING-TOP: 0in" vAlign=top>A different story about a class reunion.
HIGH SCHOOL CLASS REUNION OF A 60+ YEAR OLD LADY <o
></o>I had prepared for it like any intelligent woman would. <o
></o>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. <o
></o>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. <o
></o>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. <o
></o>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. <o
></o>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. <o
></o>I gathered up all the goodies that I had purchased at Saks: the scented shower gel; the body building and highlighting shampoo and conditioner; the split-end killer and shine enhancer. Soon my hair would look like that girl's in the Pantene ads. <o
></o>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. <o
></o>But first, the roll-on facial hair remover. I could feel the wrinkles shuddering in fear. <o
></o>Okay, 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. <o
></o>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. <o
></o>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. <o
></o>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. <o
></o>So I rested. A well deserved rest, too. <o
></o>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! <o
></o>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. <o
></o>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." <o
></o>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. <o
></o>Back straight, slightly arched, I turned and faced the mirror, turning front, and then sideways. I smiled, yes, Houston , we have lift up! <o
></o>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. <o
></o>I still had to put on my pantyhose, and shoes. Oh .. why did I buy heels with buckles? <o
></o>Then I had to pee again. <o
></o>So I put on my sweats, fixed myself a drink, ordered pizza, and skipped the high school reunion. <o
></o>If this did not give you a good laugh -- you're too young!<o
></o>I'm in no way saying the guys can get into their High School clothes either... It's a two way street..<o
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