Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Set my ladies free!
A few months ago I underwent a transformation of sorts. I'd been o-d-ing on TLCs What Not To Wear and felt compelled to launch a minor makeover on myself.
Looking back on it now, I can't help but wonder if I hadn't been temporarily possessed by aliens. It was so out of character.
But in all actuality, it more likely had to do with a bit of "aging crisis" that had begun to niggle away at me. I am such a cliche.
At any rate, this compulsion spurred me to actually get a pedicure for the first time in my life, my third manicure ever, girly make-up on my face and the purchase of
bras.
That last item there is what really makes me feel I should plead insanity. You see, I gleefully abandoned the boob straitjackets and liberated my girls a hundred years ago when we women liberated ourselves back in the late 60s. NINETEEN-sixties, mind you.
I eschewed all efforts of Playtex to convince me to lift and separate for nigh on to thirty years. Now, granted, having been what my Dad referred to as Oklahoma's answer to Twiggy, my little buds really didn't need the support. But, somewhere in my fourth decade I bloomed.
No problem, though - I got really clever at clothing myself in a way that didn't make it so noticeble that I was going commando, boastful that "I don't own a bra" and incredulous at other women who avowed they woudn't be caught dead without their bra on.
Then a few months ago, after a trip to one of my favorite playlands, I saw a picture of myself and I wasn't happy with what I saw. There was a frumpy woman grinning back at me. Eek.
This was followed by a near revelatory experience with Stacy and Clinton reaching out to me from the glowing tube in front of me showing me a shining path out of Frumpiness into Hot.
Before I could fully comprehend what had happened, I was sitting on a bar-stool in Las Vegas with painted fingers and toes, mascara, waxed brows, and wearing a Victoria's Secret Very Sexy bra 'neath a form fitting red shirt.
And someone said, "You look hot!"
Yeah - that felt pretty damn good.
I kept up with a bit of the transformation - mainly in my wardrobe, not so much in the make-up and manicure department - until today.
Today I could no longer tolerate the discomfort and restriction of the contraption cinching me in underneath my blouse. In a fit of angst, I unhooked and released my girls from their incarceration.
Nothing feels better than that first second of liberation.
Looking hot at the cost of my comfort will have to take a back seat for a while. I know I have inner hot, heh, and the world will just have to be satisfied with that.
Now I just have to figure out how to transport the bra home inconspicuously...
[[UPDATE]] I walked out the office without my bra - it's sitting on top of my computer's CPU underneath my desk. The cleaning folk will just have to deal.....
Looking back on it now, I can't help but wonder if I hadn't been temporarily possessed by aliens. It was so out of character.
But in all actuality, it more likely had to do with a bit of "aging crisis" that had begun to niggle away at me. I am such a cliche.
At any rate, this compulsion spurred me to actually get a pedicure for the first time in my life, my third manicure ever, girly make-up on my face and the purchase of
bras.
That last item there is what really makes me feel I should plead insanity. You see, I gleefully abandoned the boob straitjackets and liberated my girls a hundred years ago when we women liberated ourselves back in the late 60s. NINETEEN-sixties, mind you.
I eschewed all efforts of Playtex to convince me to lift and separate for nigh on to thirty years. Now, granted, having been what my Dad referred to as Oklahoma's answer to Twiggy, my little buds really didn't need the support. But, somewhere in my fourth decade I bloomed.No problem, though - I got really clever at clothing myself in a way that didn't make it so noticeble that I was going commando, boastful that "I don't own a bra" and incredulous at other women who avowed they woudn't be caught dead without their bra on.
Then a few months ago, after a trip to one of my favorite playlands, I saw a picture of myself and I wasn't happy with what I saw. There was a frumpy woman grinning back at me. Eek.
This was followed by a near revelatory experience with Stacy and Clinton reaching out to me from the glowing tube in front of me showing me a shining path out of Frumpiness into Hot.
Before I could fully comprehend what had happened, I was sitting on a bar-stool in Las Vegas with painted fingers and toes, mascara, waxed brows, and wearing a Victoria's Secret Very Sexy bra 'neath a form fitting red shirt.
And someone said, "You look hot!"
Yeah - that felt pretty damn good.
I kept up with a bit of the transformation - mainly in my wardrobe, not so much in the make-up and manicure department - until today.
Today I could no longer tolerate the discomfort and restriction of the contraption cinching me in underneath my blouse. In a fit of angst, I unhooked and released my girls from their incarceration.
Nothing feels better than that first second of liberation.
Looking hot at the cost of my comfort will have to take a back seat for a while. I know I have inner hot, heh, and the world will just have to be satisfied with that.
Now I just have to figure out how to transport the bra home inconspicuously...
[[UPDATE]] I walked out the office without my bra - it's sitting on top of my computer's CPU underneath my desk. The cleaning folk will just have to deal.....
Labels: Life
Posted at 4:09 PM | |
