Dressed to Kill 

(c) Janet I. Buck <JBuck22874@aol.com>

My best friend and I were trolling the local mall the other day when the good ol' days got the best of us. About the time you turn 40, just about any woman who still has her own eyelashes ought be road kill, so we were doing our very best to decide which one of the teenagers in front of us should be shot on sight because her stomach was flat enough to fit between a cutting board and the kitchen counter. It was probably the wine we had with lunch, but we somehow gathered the wit and grit to wander into Victoria's Secret and peruse the contents of this year's dream catalogue. 

Our timing was poor, because they were in the middle of a fashion show and the place was packed. The first model came out flaunting a nightie with an attitude. The sale price was $50 for the metric equivalent of two inches of material and the sequins were sold separately. I've got post-it pads with more acreage than that thing had. They must have made some big bucks last Christmas, because you could get 12 outfits in one gift box that wouldn't hold a rolled-up necktie. This may have been intentional, because we were just about ready to wrap it around Princess Passion's little neck, plop a bow on her forehead, and send her straight to hell with postage-due.

Now my idea of seduction is a half-gallon of Dreyer's, a can of hot-fudge, and a shovel, so this whole scenario wasn't sitting all that well with me. Linda told me to behave myself, so I reluctantly put a lid on the last refrain of "It's a Fool's Game" as we were making our way back to the dressing rooms. The dressing rooms were just about the size of a thimble, except in that case you don't have to amputate your head, your butt, and your left leg in order to get out alive. Most everything we tried on was labeled "wash and wear." Under most circumstances this is ideal, but you have to be able to get the damned thing over your little toe or the asset loses a significant portion of its marketability.

I ask her to pick me out a flannel robe, and she comes back with a garter belt wouldn't hold a baggy on a carrot stick, let alone a pair of middle-aged thighs. She had a conniption fit when I took it apart to take the place of those sheet straps that keep popping off when you make the bed. I still think that was a stroke of genius.

Right about then, Linda wanted some help unzipping a night gown. I still think she might have been just a tad more appreciative since I offered to rip it off and get the next size up, which was, by my calculations, almost as big as one of those knuckle Band-Aids provided you give it a good stretch. Now I understand what my grandmother meant when she said, "Intimate apparel is for the birds." 'Cause it sure as hell ain't gonna fit the rest of us.

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