Monday, November 16, 2009

Duct Tape Is NOT Your Friend, or, How I Learned I'll ALWAYS Need a Bra.

Man, I clung to those overalls for a looong time. Today's stroll down BFF Memory Lane takes us about a month into our freshman year.

BFF and I went to Webster University... a teeny tiny fine arts school that housed about 800 students when we attended. Since the school was so tiny, and perhaps because of the desire of the population to re-live a happier high school existence (freaks & geeks unite!), Webster had sock hops and dances about twice a quarter. They always had themes... Halloween, Christmas, and, in this particular instance, the Pajama Jammy Jam. It was our first dance, and in a fit of determination to fix my self confidence (well, and try to get laid), I picked up a little "sum'n sexxxy" for the dance on our monthly snack stock-up trip (juice boxes, ramen, and Nutter Butters- staples of college life) to the Kmart with Miles. Awwww yeah.

I picked out a plum-colored satin nighty... longish, not too revealing, just enough to get that "gee, I'd like to tap that" thought in some gentlemen's heads. At least, that's what it looked like on the rack. Remember... this is the '90s, heyday of the "slipdress" (thanks for that one, Princess Di!).

Most of you that read this blog have known me for quite a while, or at least have seen me at some point in your lives. I'm pretty sure you all realized that nothing I'm sporting in the "chestal region" is a recent development. I realized in the store getting a thin-strapped satin nighty was a risky maneuver. But me, I've thought ahead. I'm prepared. I was the recent recipient of a very early viral email (what would later be credited as a cautionary tale) about how to keep the "girls" in check. I drag BFF into the Home Supplies aisle.

BFF: "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Birv: "Pshhhht YES. I mean... you could see it in the picture, but only because her dress was so low-cut. I'm not THAT slutty."

BFF: "How will you keep it from tearing your skin off?"

Birv: "Well... masking tape isn't as sticky as the other stuff. I'll use that by my skin, you know, like volleyball players do (!), and then the duct tape over that to keep them from bouncing around. It'll work, trust me! (The famous last words of anyone embarking on a stupid endeavor.)"
BFF: "Oooookaaay..."
We hustle back to the dorm rooms to get ready for our very first dance. BFF is ready quickly, adorably in a set of cotton jammies. Time for her to help Sultry Susie Birv get ready. The viral email doesn't really show how much tape was used to replace a bra, or how it was put on. Plus, that girl doesn't have tits the size of watermelons to deal with. I decide one strip for "Nip THO Prevention" and cleavage enhancement won't be enough. Best to wrap the whole kit & kaboodle (kabooble?) up, boob tube style, for good measure.
I employ a dubious (and remarkably gracious) BFF to start at my back and start wrapping like a mummy with the masking tape, while I hold the girls in place. We're standing in the middle of my dorm, hoping to god that my roommate doesn't walk in, as this would just take WAY too much explaining. After some awkward moments in which we try to figure out the nipple situation-I end up just taking care of that area myself (To this date, I have never seen BFF's goods. She insists she's seen far too much of mine.)- the masking tape layer is on. It's taken up the entire roll, which doesn't fill me with self-confidence and poise. In fact, it's pretty sweaty, and isn't exactly forming to my body like I envisioned it would; it's lumpy as hell and poking me in the arms when I try to put them at my sides.

Never one to do stupid things in a half-assed manner, I press on. So what if sweat is pooling in my cleavage, as well as dripping down my back? This kind of strapless bra beauty comes at a price. Once the duct tape is on, smoothing everything out- I'll look vixenish and gorgeous. A red-headed Marilyn (hah!). I make BFF start with the mummy wrap one more time.
Laughing the whole time, BFF finishes the job. It's getting hot in my room, and with two rolls of tape on my chest, it's pretty hard to inhale. I have no idea how anyone in their right mind would willingly wear a corset. But still...I'm gonna look friggin' sweet at that dance. I may not be able to sit down or bend over except at right angles (that much tape is actually pretty rigid), and the breathing thing may make it really hard to, you know, actually dance, but still. Who cares? I'm going to meet someone cute! I just know it! (All right, I'll be honest, what was going through my mind is "Tyson will finally notice me! Tyson will finally notice me!" Ahhh.... crushes)
An hour later, I'm ready for the actual nighty. I need assistance getting it on, as I can't lift my arms above my shoulders without serious threat of ripping off my nips (turns out masking tape is stickier than one would think), so BFF helps out. It barely fits over my homemade strapless bra. Never accounted for adding what must have been an inch of tape to my bustline.
It's totally not working. the duct tape only makes the peaks and points of the rest of the tape more prominent, the sweat dripping down my back to my ass is making a spot on my dress the size of Lake Michigan, and now every time I breathe, you can hear a weird crackling noise as the dress rubs across the tape.
BFF is trying to be loyal, and not laugh her ass off. She's failing miserably. I'm trying to convince myself that it is acceptable to go in public looking (and sounding) like an HVAC unit. I am also failing miserably. I finally decide (as sweat begins to work it's way out of my cleavage and I look more and more like a linebacker after a July practice in Florida) to give up on the taping and wear a bra and a sweater. So much for sex kitten appeal. I try to take the tape off.
This proves more difficult than it seems. My body heat has fused the glue of all the tape together. BFF runs to her room, and comes back, sniggering, with a giant pair of scissors (BFF is always prepared), and cuts through what basically adds up to a full torso cast.
Remember how I said I couldn't raise my arms without serious damage? This is nothing, NOTHING compared to trying to pull 80 layers of tape off my boobs. Guess what? That skin is pretty sensitive. And has apparently absorbed the first layer of tape like a she-wolf adopts a foundling boy. IT WILL NOT LET GO.
BFF is now crying laughing, unable to stand. She's now content to watch me suffer in pulling my modern body armor off while lounging in comfort in her Sailor Moon jammies on my bed. I finally get the tape off 1/2 an hour later, and we head to the dance in defeat- my hair 6 inches bigger in a poof of sweaty humidity from my frenzied fight with the tape demons.
Imeet no one (or have anyone notice me) at the party. Probably pretty lucky in that- I have red marks on my boobs for a full week after, and I look like a leper.
Just for shiggles... the viral email that prompted this is below. Enjoy.

1 comment:

Cathy said...

I forgot how sweaty the masking tape made you! Also once we got to the Pajama Jammy Jam there were only 5 other people there, as I recall.