There's No Place Like....

I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn't itch.

Gilda Radner

Time once again to return to the shop for the final alterations on my dress for oldest son's wedding. Two months after the initial shopping trip with the Bunco Bitches to find the dress they decided looked best on my bod, I found myself back on the elevated step in the dressing room.

Following the instructions of my peers, I wore the chosen bra and even arrived with the cute little silver shoes I'd selected at the shoe store the day before.

Yes, those are bruises on my legs and there is a woman's hand up my dress, that belonging to the little Russian lady that does the altering. Next to her, out of camera view, is my friend Linda, also a seamstress, who worked the Russian chick to make sure she did an excellent job.

Don't I look like I'm having fun?

The lap swimming I've done for the past year seems to finally have made a dent in my body. The dress needed two inches taken up on top seams. Also, the chosen bra didn't quite fill out the top. Someone in the room finally uttered, "Face it, girl. You have no tits."

The little Russian lady sent for the bra lady and once again I bared by body in front of my friends. No modesty left although I told them if they made me put on my Spanx, they would have to leave me to my self. You know those things - they barely fit over your ankle and then you have to pull them all the way to your armpits? No, I will never let anyone see that wrestling match.

Alas, the Spanx wasn't needed and we progressed to another bra fitting. The little lady pushed and prodded at my bosom, moving it this way and that. She instructed the bra lady to bring her best push up bra. I had no clue what they were going to push up. When handed the tendered bra, I leaned over and followed the instructions to shake my girls into the cups, then reach my hand in and move them around. I put on the dress and my alterer again stood before me, adjusting me this way and that. I could tell she just wanted to reach in there and move them around herself. At that point, I could have cared less.

Anyway, all pinned up and hot flashing and my Fred Flinstone feet aching from standing in my pretty little silver shoes for an hour, it was, finally, time for lunch...

...and a margarita.

I found a different pair of shoes to wear. Hopefully, I can keep these on long enough to get down the aisle and through the dance with my son. Two weeks until the wedding. It truly has been fun getting ready and I can't wait to have a grand time. Family, friends flying in and if someone would just come and clean my house, I'd be in good shape. I'd do it, but I'm off to a double header. Youngest son's baseball. Comes before cleaning, of course.

And if I had my way, these are the shoes I'd wear to the wedding. There's, indeed, no place like my Birkenstocks.