There’s not enough lycra in the world to get me across the threshold of a Fredericks of Hollywood store. In a few weeks. I’ll be turning 54 so I would have to be out of my mind to wear fishnet stockings or a slit up my skirt, yet my friend and consultant is anxious to “floozy me up.” Just because you can do something doesn’t mean that you should.
Since I mentioned using “Tart Cookies” as a business name, she has campaigned for dressing me up like a tart. Why couldn’t I have chosen “Smart Cookies” or “Tough Cookies?” I’ve decided to humor her because she is my best friend, and occasionally she comes up with very good ideas. This is probably not one of them.
And what fun would dress-up be without some humiliating photographic evidence of my shame? People are literally lining up, volunteering to take pictures of me in my skanky attire, so I need to plan this wardrobe with the least amount of satin and lace that I can get away with. Sequins are OK, feathers are out, and at no time was leather ever on the bargaining table.
So that settles it. There is no way I’m wearing something skin-tight without something else holding my skin in. According to the laws of physics, mass doesn’t just go away, so I’ll have to plan out my wardrobe with military precision. If I wear the high waisted, mid-thigh super power panties, will my stomach end up shooting upward like a giant third breast—a trifecta of mammaries? What cut of skirt will look best with my butt cheeks hanging just above my kneecaps? Can I prevent this becoming the you tube video from hell?
I’m doing it, people. I am abandoning my dignity while I type in my credit card number. In five to seven days, I will own my first pair of spanx … but I’m still not going to Fredericks of Hollywood.