Glamour Girl
A makeover is fun for a night, but being accepted just as you are is beautiful
A complete makeover and a night on the town with college friends was great, but coming home to her loving husband was better.
My college girlfriends and I meet once a month for lunch, endeavouring to solve the world’s problems. After receiving an invitation to a reunion of our English Lit class’s tenth anniversary, we checked the date and realized it was only two weeks away! After much animated discussion, we decided to throw caution to the wind and attend the gala event.
This called for desperate measures— a complete makeover was in order. Angelo’s ritzy spa promised amazing results from the neck up. The rest of me would be controlled by the miracle of a spandex intimate undergarment that I had recently seen in a fashion magazine.
The result of my visit to Angelo’s proved beyond fabulous. I was thrilled! Next stop, a boutique that specialized in the latest spandex intimate apparel— the wonder garment of all time. Upon entering the store, I was handed a full-body, seamless affair that included a push-up bra and a nicely padded derriere. The dressing room had a threeway slimming mirror that is designed to deceive. I stepped one foot then the other into the gar- ment, tugging and pulling, but only succeeded in getting it thigh-high. I was stuck! As if in anticipation of my yelp of distress, a can of baby powder presented itself through the top half of the door. I liberally dowsed my torso, after which the garment slid up quite easily. Lovely! The three-way mirror showed I had lost 20 pounds—not to be fooled, I estimated it to be more like 15. Thank God for spandex.
I was now ready to search out a dress. As luck would have it, there was an exclusive dress shop right next door. My theory is that these salons are placed in close proximity for the convenience of people like me. I entered, glanced about and there it was—the dress of my dreams, right before my very eyes. I tried it on, and miraculously it fit perfectly on my spandexed body. I looked utterly amazing.
All too soon, D-day arrived. I skipped upstairs, anxious to begin donning the outfit. Strappy little sandals—a last-minute purchase—also stood at the ready. I began by struggling into my spandex, all the while my inner organs protesting against this unusual punishment. It was about then that I spied a tiny tag reading, “Health hazard: May be dangerous if worn daily.” I disregarded that altogether, because this was for one night only.
When I arrived at the Royal Regency ballroom, I was given a red carpet welcome. Everyone kept saying, “Wow! You haven’t changed a bit.” My first serious boyfriend asked me to dance— and dance we all did, far into the night. Life was good!
Afterwards, a taxi dropped me off at my doorstep. I was sweaty and itchy all over and I desperately needed to breathe deeply. On swollen feet, I hobbled to our bedroom, where I quickly stripped off the offending garment with a sigh of relief.
I slipped into bed and felt my darling husband’s arms around me. I nestled close. He may kill me when he sees the credit card bills, but for now, I am thankful to be in a place where I am lovingly accepted just as I am. ■