Operation Mini-Skirt: -42.4 lbs.
Mood: I gained eight ounces. How do you think I feel?
And you know, I'm going to gain more this weekend too, dammit! I've got the annual office holiday potluck today, and the Christmas party tomorrow night. Yes, I know I should use discipline, I should abstain from the bounty that will be spread before me... but I don't want to! And I don't think that this is an unhealthy attitude to take either. In a very sound state of mind, I've decided that I will most likely have to work off an extra pound or two because of this weekend, and that's OK. I'm not going to go crazy... I'll leave dessert behind, and if something is smothered in butter, cream or something insanely delectable like that, I'm not going to touch it. But damn, I'm not going to nibble at lettuce leaves with a squeeze of lemon if there is Chateau Briand to be had... right? Right? See, that's what I thought, too.
* * *
So it would seem that there is a boy to flirt with in the fringes of my world. That is, he makes funny little comments, and I answer back in a very facetious manner, so as not to be taken seriously. The strangeness of it all is this... he's attractive. He's really attractive. And normally, I'd only hesitate for a few minutes before doing the obvious touch-his-arm-while-I'm-laughing-because-let's-face-it-I'm-easy kind of move... But as it stands now, I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole because... well... because... oh God, I can't believe I'm admitting this. See, he sends these emails that completely lack any kind of regard for grammar or punctuation or, like, spelling! Is it weird that I'm so incredibly turned off by someone who doesn't know how to stop a sentence? Really, is it that abnormal? Is this the beginning of some kind of language fetish? On some level, do I attach the use of the exclamation point to phallus capability? Somewhere in the back of my mind, do I connect sentence structure to foreplay? Oh God! Can I only be titillated by four-syllable words?
* * *
As mentioned ad nauseum, tomorrow is the Christmas party. Kudos to my company for calling it what it is, instead of something ridiculous like a Seasonal Gathering, or a Holiday Feast, or a Politically Correct Arse-Lodging.
I'll be escorted by the ever lovely and talented Vanilla, so I'm sure to have a fabulous time. He loves to dance. And more importantly, he can. Does it get any better than that? I'm pretty much set for a good evening.
Except... for one little problem... well, two really... and girls, you know this conundrum well. The dress has spaghetti straps and a low back. Conceivably, I could wear a strapless bra, but it will outline itself through the satin material to such a degree, I might as well wear it on the outside of the dress. The other option is to dabble in a little bit of masochism, and apply those stick-on, strapless supports. This, however leads to a couple of other difficult situations; namely The Application of Bra That Ensures Parallel Boobs, ensuring that your breast alignment doesn’t resemble Shannon Doherty's crooked-ass eyeballs... and the ever-present problem of The De-Application. Or, as it's usually known, Breast Reduction, The Cheap Way.
Who invented this kind of torture? Why bother spending the money on something that has the approximate comfort level of duct tape? I could de-stickify the supports a little, so as to facilitate a less painful removal, but that also leaves me open to an unanticipated liberation of breast(s) while reaching for my Chardonnay.
My other option is to go without any type of foundation garment at all. That is, glorify in the power and beauty of my youth, and accept the fact that my twenty-eight-year old Girls will neither point south nor give me forehead bruises, even while I'm feverishly boogying down.
Of course, it's even a little bit chilly in the room, I run the risk of putting someone's eye out...
Band-Aids? Is this an option? Twin Band-Aids that protect the world from obvious glass-cutting implements? I’d have to give them new names, of course. My breasts would be henceforth known as my Nellys… I could call it a political statement, and claim that I’m wearing booby plasters to support all my sistah’s in prison who are forced to wear K-Mart quality brassieres…
Right, so that's my day off to a fine start. You'll get a full report on my weekend misbehaviour at some point between now and Monday morning. Keep your fingers crossed for a sordid and tawdry tale. And in the meantime, do a little misbehavin' yourself this weekend...
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