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HIGH SCHOOL CLASS REUNION


A friend sent me this. I Laughed until I cried, almost…

HIGH SCHOOL CLASS REUNION OF

>A 70+ YEAR OLD LADY
>
>I had prepared for it like any intelligent woman would.
>
>I went on a starvation diet the day before, knowing that all the
>extra weight would just melt off in 24 hours, leaving me with my sleek,
>trim, high-school-girl body. The last forty years of careful
>cellulite collection would just be gone with a snap of a finger.
>
>I knew if I didn’t eat a morsel on Friday, that I could probably
>fit into my senior formal on Saturday. Trotting up to the attic,
>I pulled the gown out of the garment bag, carried it lovingly downstairs,
>ran my hand over the fabric, and hung it on the door.
>
>I stripped naked, looked in the mirror, sighed, and thought, “Well,
>okay, maybe if I shift it all to the back …” Bodies
>never have pockets where you need them.
>
>Bravely I took the gown off the hanger, unzipped the shimmering
>dress and stepped gingerly into it. I struggled, twisted, turned,
>and pulled and I got the formal all the way up to my knees … before
>the zipper gave out. I was disappointed. I wanted to wear that
>dress with those silver sandals again and dance the night away.
>
>Okay, one setback was not going to spoil my mood for this affair.
> No way! Rolling the dress into a ball and tossing it into
>the corner, I turned to Plan B: the black crepe caftan.
>
>I gathered up all the goodies that I had purchased at Saks: the
>scented shower gel; the body building and highlighting shampoo and
> conditioner; the split-end killer and shine enhancer. Soon my
> hair would look like that girl’s in the Pantene ads.
>
>Then the makeup — the under eye “ain’t no lines here” firming
>cream, the all-day face-lifting gravity-fighting moisturizer with
>wrinkle filler spackle; the ‘all day kiss me till my lips bleed, and
>see if this gloss will come off’ lipstick, the bronzing face powder
>for that special glow.
>
>But first, the roll-on facial hair remover. I could feel the wrinkles
>shuddering in fear.
>
>Okay, time to get ready! I jumped into the steaming shower,
>soaped, lathered, rinsed, shaved, tweezed, buffed, scrubbed and scoured
>my body to a tingling pink.
>
>I plastered my freshly scrubbed face with the anti-wrinkle, gravity
>fighting “your face will look like a baby’s posterior” face cream.
> I set my hair on hot rollers.
>
>I felt wonderful. Ready to take on the world. Or in
>this instance, my underwear. With the towel firmly wrapped around
>my glistening body, I pulled out the black lace, tummy-tucking, cellulite-pushing,
>ham hock-rounding girdle, and the matching “lifting those bosoms like
>they’re filled with helium” bra.
>
>I greased my body with the scented body lotion and began the plunge.
> I pulled, stretched, tugged, hiked, folded, tucked, twisted,
>shimmied, hopped, pushed, wiggled, snapped, shook, caterpillar crawled
>and kicked. Sweat poured off my forehead but I was done. And
>it didn’t look bad.
>
>So I rested. A well deserved rest, too.
>
>The girdle was on my body. Bounce a quarter off my behind?
> It was tighter than a trampoline. Can you say, “Rubber
>baby buggy bumper buns?” Okay, so I had to take baby steps,
>and walk sideways, and I couldn’t move from my buns to my knees. But
>I was firm!
>
>Oh no … I had to go to the bathroom. And there wasn’t a
>snap crotch. From now on, undies gotta have a snap crotch. I
>was ready to rip it open and re-stitch the crotch with Velcro, but
>the pain factor from past experiments was still fresh in my mind.
> I quickly sidestepped to the bathroom.
>
>An hour later, I had answered nature’s call and repeated the struggle
>into the girdle. I was ready for the bra. I remembered
>what the saleslady said to do. I could see her glossed lips
>mouthing, “Do not fasten the bra in the front, and twist it
>around. Put the bra on the way it should be worn — straps over
>the shoulders. Then bend over and gently place both breasts
>inside the cups.”
>
>Easy if you have four hands. But, with confidence, I put
>my arms into the holsters, bent over and pulled the bra down … but
>the boobs weren’t cooperating. I’d no sooner tuck one in a cup, and
>while placing the other, the first would slip out. I needed
>a strategy. I bounced up and down a few times, tried to dribble
> them in with short bunny hops, but that didn’t work. So, while
> bent over, I began rocking gently back and forth on my heel and toes
> and I set ’em to swinging. Finally, on the fourth swing,
> pause, and lift, I captured the gliding glands. Quickly
> fastening the back of the bra,
>I stood up for examination.
>
>Back straight, slightly arched, I turned and faced the mirror,
>turning front, and then sideways. I smiled, yes, Houston ,
>we have lift up!
>
>My breasts were high, firm and there was cleavage! I was
>happy until I tried to look down. I had a chin rest. And
>I couldn’t see my feet.
>
>I still had to put on my pantyhose, and shoes. Oh … why
>did I buy heels with buckles?
>
>Then I had to pee again. ……..So I put on my sweats, fixed myself
>a drink, ordered pizza, and skipped the high school reunion.
>
>

If this didn’t make you laugh out loud, you’re too
> young!!

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3 Responses

  1. bwahahaha, lovely!

  2. Hysterical.

    The difference between her and me . . . I would have trashed the reuniion invite as soon as it arrived, fixed myself a drink, and ordered a pizza. : )

  3. I’m with you. I would probably have tried some of her things first though, unfortunately. But you have the right idea. Just be yourself.

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