It appeared in my mail, disguised like an ordinary party invitation. It beckoned my attention with, “You are invited to the ultimate shopping experience…”
Please, no more jewelry or home gadgets I thought. Curiosity got the better of me and I read further.
“Imagine…viewing the latest designer fashion collection in a relaxed home environment with your good friends.”
Hmm…sounds tempting. If they were designs for the body type challenged and one size fits all, count me in.
I arrived amidst a crowd of thirty-something, perky- boobed, cellulite free women. Gravity long ago shifted my bust towards my diaphragm. I hoped my suck-it-in panties wouldn’t slingshot out of my pants, and blind someone.
A few of my friends arrived and as we made eye contact, I saw they were also sweating. Either this was a group hot flash or a George Clooney sighting.
The beautifully accessorized consultant handed us a catalog and began her presentation.
“So, for how many of you is this your first time?” she asked.
I had been to more than a few of these in my time. Then I looked around at the number of raised hands, like a preschool class before recess. How old were these women?
“By the end of this party, you will no longer be virgins.”
What kind of party was this? Maybe I had been confused and this was one of those sex toy parties I had heard about. Viewing kinky items in a group forum was just wrong- well at least when they are all women anyway.
I was breathing in and out in my purse, feigning searching for a mint when I heard,
“This is a party where you take off your clothes with all of your friends. I hope you wore your good underwear.”
I would have appreciated that information before I left the house. My conservative friend, the hostess, was blushing and fanning herself like a nun at a nudist colony.
After viewing the entire collection on a perfect size four frame, it was time to embark on the ultimate shopping experience. I clawed through the racks frantically trying to find something that would fit my “I look my age” body. I noticed my friend Cindy staring in disgust at a shirt so small even Nicole Richie wouldn’t have fit into it.
“Quick, into the storage area,” I said leading the way. “There is a dim light in there and no one will see us.”
Unfortunately I was sporting what my daughters refer to as my “granny panties.” They cover the battle scars from two Cesarean deliveries. Okay, the scar is much lower than it used to be but it is how I justify my “grannies.”
I glanced over and saw a pasty white object and Cindy was sporting a thong! Oh no…she had been brainwashed by the younger crowd. It was an undergarment conspiracy.
A piece of super floss stuck in my butt; how uncomfortable is that? I can’t even remember to floss my teeth let alone pull off that whale tale look. Why draw attention to where the cellulite fairy makes frequent visits?
Wait, what’s that? I never knew Cindy had a tattoo there!
Feeling ancient, I shifted the “grannies” to half mast, creating a mock bikini. I considered stuffing the excess fabric in my butt to pull off the look.
“What’s with the thong?” I asked attempting to sound nonchalant..
“I hate panty lines and these are so comfortable,” she said.
Liar… I thought to myself. Walking around with a permanent wedgie my butt; next she’ll start dancing and singing “The Thong Song.”
Perhaps I was just supersensitive because my daughter worked for Victoria’s Secret. She was constantly pressuring me to ditch the “grannies” and update my lingerie.
“Mom, Dad would love these, they are really sexy,” she would smirk.
Great. Now I was getting love life advice from my twenty-year old.
Eventually I purchased a few items that I was able to squeeze into and I could actually visualize myself wearing. I was suddenly anxious to reach the solace of my car.
Time to hoist those “grannies” back to where nature intended them to be.
Maybe my daughter was right. Even Cindy had succumbed to peer pressure. Tomorrow I would trade in the “grannies” for thongs. At least wearing one would remind me to floss more often.