Friday, March 09, 2007
Bombs over beer gut
Rac has been trying to tell me for years. I should have listened. I should have known. Alas, like all things, I had to come to it myself.
What is this revelation, you ask? Pretty easy.
THE PUSHUP BRA IS AN ENGINEERING MARVEL. Like the Hoover Dam. La Tour Eiffel. The Ferris Wheel. I don't know what clever bastard finally made the link between the braziere and the suspension-bridge, but I salute said person. Goddamn brilliant.
And don't you dare call me stupid that it took me three decades to learn this. I am a foreigner to some very basic traditional female rituals. It's just how I roll. I like painting my fingernails and I've grown to love high heels in the last few years, but I don't know shit about hair, makeup or lingerie. I'd be better off in the hands of an armless Nam Vet when it comes to cosmetics than left to my own devices. As for bras, well, I have two: a sports bra for the gym (feel the burn!) and a tube-top number for keeping my shit under wraps at work.
With LL Cool Jew's nuptials on the horizon, though, I'm in Lady Training. I gotta wear a dress - a hot one at that, but a mystery, with strange descriptions like "A-line." I have to wear silver shoes. Get my hair did and draped with florals. Buy gel cup boosty things because I boast THE smallest tits in the whole wedding party.
So it's Chick 101 for me. As Hammer says, Ring the bell - school's in, sucka!
Items on the agenda:
First, call 1-800-STORAGE for my beer gut. Switch to whisky. Cut down on the bread. Do not be the pregnant-lookin'-fat-girl in the wedding. It's been an interesting experiment - challenging, certainly, but I'm a little bit OCD, so there's a degree of self-discipline that I actually enjoy. And the diet is working. Not that there's a single person speaking English and alive today who *doesn't know this, just sayin.
Second mission. Handle my tits. Hence the pushup bra. Again, I know the ladies have been telling me about this, yet somehow it didn't hit my ears. But hold the fucking phone, I'm a believer. THIS BRA IS FUCKING AMAZING. There is now, for the first time in my natural lifetime, a shadow that comes somewhere near the word "cleavage." Me, President of the Tiny Titty Committee. I have no problem with that - it simply means that I am unaccustomed to seeing boobs on myself. This changes everything. It makes me think - can you do this with ass? Love handles? Beer guts? Is there someway to resling all this shit so you, er, redistribute the chunky wealth?
And then it hits me - THIS is what they mean when they say *silhouette. OHHHHHH...
Mission after this.
Alteration. I don't want to talk about it. Just let me know if you know a tailor.
Mission, what are we on, four?
Touch up my dye job so I don't look like Madonna.
Mission 5
Go back into booze boot camp a few weeks before the wedding so I don't fall over in them aforementioned heels.
Nummer 6
Make it to wedding etc
and lucky Number 7
Get a fucking photo of myself looking every inch like a lady and print the shit on a shirt to wear to the gym.
To remind us all that it is in fact possible, it did in fact happen, it is true: I'm a girl, and I can act like one.
What is this revelation, you ask? Pretty easy.
THE PUSHUP BRA IS AN ENGINEERING MARVEL. Like the Hoover Dam. La Tour Eiffel. The Ferris Wheel. I don't know what clever bastard finally made the link between the braziere and the suspension-bridge, but I salute said person. Goddamn brilliant.
And don't you dare call me stupid that it took me three decades to learn this. I am a foreigner to some very basic traditional female rituals. It's just how I roll. I like painting my fingernails and I've grown to love high heels in the last few years, but I don't know shit about hair, makeup or lingerie. I'd be better off in the hands of an armless Nam Vet when it comes to cosmetics than left to my own devices. As for bras, well, I have two: a sports bra for the gym (feel the burn!) and a tube-top number for keeping my shit under wraps at work.
With LL Cool Jew's nuptials on the horizon, though, I'm in Lady Training. I gotta wear a dress - a hot one at that, but a mystery, with strange descriptions like "A-line." I have to wear silver shoes. Get my hair did and draped with florals. Buy gel cup boosty things because I boast THE smallest tits in the whole wedding party.
So it's Chick 101 for me. As Hammer says, Ring the bell - school's in, sucka!
Items on the agenda:
First, call 1-800-STORAGE for my beer gut. Switch to whisky. Cut down on the bread. Do not be the pregnant-lookin'-fat-girl in the wedding. It's been an interesting experiment - challenging, certainly, but I'm a little bit OCD, so there's a degree of self-discipline that I actually enjoy. And the diet is working. Not that there's a single person speaking English and alive today who *doesn't know this, just sayin.
Second mission. Handle my tits. Hence the pushup bra. Again, I know the ladies have been telling me about this, yet somehow it didn't hit my ears. But hold the fucking phone, I'm a believer. THIS BRA IS FUCKING AMAZING. There is now, for the first time in my natural lifetime, a shadow that comes somewhere near the word "cleavage." Me, President of the Tiny Titty Committee. I have no problem with that - it simply means that I am unaccustomed to seeing boobs on myself. This changes everything. It makes me think - can you do this with ass? Love handles? Beer guts? Is there someway to resling all this shit so you, er, redistribute the chunky wealth?
And then it hits me - THIS is what they mean when they say *silhouette. OHHHHHH...
Mission after this.
Alteration. I don't want to talk about it. Just let me know if you know a tailor.
Mission, what are we on, four?
Touch up my dye job so I don't look like Madonna.
Mission 5
Go back into booze boot camp a few weeks before the wedding so I don't fall over in them aforementioned heels.
Nummer 6
Make it to wedding etc
and lucky Number 7
Get a fucking photo of myself looking every inch like a lady and print the shit on a shirt to wear to the gym.
To remind us all that it is in fact possible, it did in fact happen, it is true: I'm a girl, and I can act like one.
Labels: exercise drama, FalloniusMonk, holy fucking matrimony
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