Bridal Underwear of the Worst Sort (APIWATWOL #2)

#2 in my "A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words Or Less" series. (For a description of how this series works, see Installment #1.)

This photo was taken well into Jeff's and my outdoor wedding reception in a wooded area north of San Francisco, Nicosio to be exact. The night sky served as a backdrop for the 18-piece jazz orchestra headed up by Jeff's pal, Chris. At this point in the festivities, my hair was a mess, matted with sweat from dancing. But beneath my wedding dress--a casual number that I bought off the rack while shopping with my pal Sabra--an even bigger mess was brewing.

See, I was wearing the most godawful undergarments imaginable. In addition to helping me select a dress that wasn't all lace and tulle, Sabra had instructed me in the ways of bridal underwear. (Bridal underwear? Seriously?) Specifically, she taught me that there existed pantyhose that actually went all the way up to one's boobs instead of stopping at the waist. Who knew?! Then she taught me about bras that ran extra long and, when combined with the extra tall pantyhose, would fortify a bride's efforts to keep her gooey pizza belly contained long enough for decent wedding photos. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

The catch? Like Cinderella's big night out, at some point these armor-like undergarments would lose their magical powers, similar to the way everything goes to hell when Cindy stays at the ball a tad too long. The jeweled carriage? Poof! Back to being a pumpkin. That gorgeous gown? Poof! It's once more the tattered frock she wears daily.

In similar fashion, at some point during the long night of dancing and mingling with pals who went as far back as elementary school, my overpriced, overly restrictive undergarments rebelled at my wedding reception. Just like that. No warning. Poof! 

First, I felt the steady downward curl of my pantyhose as they made their way south, gaining speed as they rolled into a thick coil around my waist, causing my upper belly to tumble out between the top of my pantyhose and the lower edge of my bra, like an overstuffed sausage whose casing had torn. Poof!

And then, without the help of the pantyhose holding it in place, the lower edge of my uber-bra snapped upward like a cheap window roller shade, only stopping when it had made its way halfway up my bosom, effectively cutting my breasts in half. Poof!

Nothing was where it was supposed to be and I thought if I pulled off my dress right then and there, my entire chest and belly area would look like a package of store-bought dinner rolls, all crammed together with only the slightest delineation of where one roll ended and the next began. Not exactly the look I was going for when the last of the guests left and Jeff and I officially launched our honeymoon (aka, had sex) in the main house on the property.

Thankfully, it appears I'm a one-wedding kinda gal, as Jeff and I still seem to like one another after 20 years together. Thus, never again will I have to subject myself to the humiliation of bridal undies.