Friday, 23 December 2011

pretty knickers

I'm a klassy lady, no doubt about it.  I have just opened a package at my desk at work and THANK GOD the office was empty because I hauled out the most enormous flesh coloured expanse of lycra known to mankind.  That's right, I am hauling this ass into shapeliness by confining it within the bounds of a spanxtravagnza on the wedding day and P going to be BEYOND THRILLED.  I can confidently predict wedding night will go much like this:

1. Getmarriedsignlicenceblahblahblah DRINK CHAMPAGNE.  LOTS OF CHAMPAGNE! 
2. Follow that up with forget to eat anything/decide it's clearly a good idea not to eat anything because holy hell I do not want to look bloated in that mothereffing dress. Besides, logic dictates not eating will leave more room for champagne.
3. Begin dancing.  Only with champagne in hand.  Cannot do it without: look like epileptic spider when dancing sans glass in hand, look extremely hotttttt and skinny with glass. 
4. Get assistance to pee from girls by promising more champagne, try my damnedest not to pee on the dress while they haul the elasticated monstrosities down my legs in order to lever me onto the loo (those girls are good to me.  They just have to ask and I too will wrestle the spanxmonster to allow them to pee and I'll damn well compliment their vajazzle at the same time even if glittervaghearts are not my thing).
5. Tell my parents I love them.  And my family.  And my friends. Then tell P's family that I love them too, even the ones I've not met.  But also tell them that eff me, their last name is just ABYSMAL and they should count themselve lucky I'm taking it even though it is against all my feminazi principles and it was just because P looked like he might cry when I told him I'd been thinking about keeping mine.
6. Fall over on dance floor while trying my patented bend over backwards dance move which is like sexy crack to the gentlemen.  *Ahem*
7. Find P (no doubt having hugs and backslaps with his boys "chaps, you know my motto is bros before hos" and, no doubt, "just because I married her doesn't mean I love you chaps less").
8. Leave wedding venue for B&B in cab. 
9. Try to avoid cab vom.  Distinct possibility of pulling over at some point en route.
10. Arrive at B&B, kick out friend who hid in the front (no way am I having suggestions of a little A sandwich or spoon-sesh on my wedding night)
11. Stumble into bedroom where P will have stashed a little somethingsomething along the lines of hideously expensive champagne which we will open, be unable to taste because our mouths have eau-de-vino/"just a wee dram of whiskey to celebrate" already.
12. P will help me with the buttons over my bum on the back of the dress et, voila! discover the SEXIEST UNDERWEAR KNOWN TO MANKIND as popularised by Renee Zellweger in one of the greatest movies of our time
13.  P will wonder, for approximately the 999,999th time in the 10 or so years he's known me, what happened to the image of delicate, feminine futurewife he envisaged before he met me
14.  While P takes time for his wee internal monologue, I will pass out.

And that my friends, is how spanx will, in all likelihood, ruin wedding night amorousness for me.  It will be the spanx' fault.  FOR SURE.

(oh god I just google imaged ugly spanx for a pic to accompany this post and I'm pretty sure it's gonna get me fired. eff, eff eff.....for the love of god, DO NOT make that mistake!)

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