I have a deal with my sister-in-law who loves to shop (and who is very good at it): whenever she goes shopping, if she sees something for me, she puts it on hold, calls me, and I go try it on. She not only has the good taste and a sense of style that I do not, but she also has a realistic picture of my body shape, which I (also) do not. In my mind’s eye, I still have the shapely, curvaceous, hourglass figure of my young womanhood, and I do not recognize the pumpkinish-pearish shape that presents itself in the mirror.
Several weeks ago, she found a black dress that she thought would be good, dutifully put it on hold, and notified me. I dutifully went and tried it on and lo and behold—she was right; it was good, and I bought it.
I decided to wear the dress to church the following Sunday and put it on, which was not as easy as it sounds. Un-noticed by me in my glut of retail therapy, the dress had a control-top panel lining. It was very control-ly, and there was a brief skirmish involving my hips, but I proved victorious and slithered off to church, controlled.
Things were okay when I was sitting down, but I noticed a strange phenomenon when I walked: my stomach, hips, bum, and thighs were getting very hot. Was it hormonal? No. Was it the tropical weather? No. It was the friction being generated between the control-top panel and my slicky underwear, to be exact.
What to do? I thought about cooling things off by sitting myself down in a water puddle, but images of the resultant steam rising from my nether regions nixed that idea (didn’t want to give Hubby the wrong idea … ). I contemplated going smokeless, but visions of myself tripping and falling and exposing my—well, you get the idea—brought me back to my senses.
By this time I decided I must have been a little light-headed from lack of oxygen, due to the excellent constricting nature of the control top. A python would have been intimidated by the squeeziness of this thing.
In the end, I made a mad dash for the car, shooting sparks with each swish of my thighs, and aimed the air-conditioner vents straight up the dress. Ah, sweet relief!