Hot Mess Express

 In today’s episode of “Why Can’t Anna be Normal?”, whatever normal is, I’d like to take you with me on a little journey. Picture a formal event for an elementary school where all the participants will be two decades younger me. I wonder, “What is in style? Can I still rock a black-tie event? Could I ever?” I get out my favorite long blue dress from Amazon, but it becomes clear that no amount of shapewear is going to get my post-Menopausal fluff into the bottom of it. 

 

At this point I head to my happy place, the thrift store, and purchase a dress for $10, a dehumidifier, and some Pokémon paraphernalia. The dress wasn’t love at first, second, or even third sight, but I figure it will do. When I get home and try it on, I realize it needs altering. One place quotes me $90, but I eventually find someone who will add two darts to the bust for $40. 

 

$50 total for a formal dress, albeit one I don’t love, still sounds like a reasonable bargain, so I forge ahead. When I pick it up, I find that the straight strapless cut across my chest, rather than being cute, sexy, or even classy, looks like when you get out of the shower and wrap yourself in a towel. No decolletage, just a vast expanse of skin. 

 

So, my next bright idea is to get my first-ever spray tan for to make this barren wasteland more palatable. As I get dressed afterward, the technician tells me to not wear a bra for a while because it might mess up the tan. Not only was a $60 expense (plus tip) now added to my “bargain dress,” this commando commandment threatened to mess with my schedule of 1000 errands to do before school pickup. Fortunately, Virginia weather means that the morning was wintry, so I layered on two sweatshirts to try to disguise my unrestrained, pendulous appendages. 

 

What might seem like no big deal to someone in her twenties, felt like a big deal to me as I ran (gingerly) around town checking things off my To Do list. Who am I kidding? Even in my twenties this would not have been a good look for me. Sure, I was petite, but more in a “marble in a tube sock kind of way” than a perky free-spirited one.

 

All was well until the temperature started to climb, my spray tan skidded down my body faster than Rudy Giuliani’s hair dye, and I remembered the technician’s final admonishment, “Don’t sweat.” 

 

I promise I’ll put on a bra later for International Night. Follow me for more beauty and money-saving tips.