Going to a gala with a girdle

There aren't very many opportunities in my life to get dressed up.

Oh, there's work, but we in the newspaper industry aren't exactly known for our fashion sense. It's one of the many reasons we're not on television.

There's the occasional wedding, but consider the one I'm attending this weekend. The Other Half and I accompanied the groom to pick out a nice Hawaiian shirt to go with his best pair of khakis. How do you avoid dressing better than the happy couple at a wedding like that? Cut-offs and a T-shirt?

But then came a free ticket to the American Cancer Society Gala, arguably the social event of the spring season in Cape Girardeau. No longer could I cry the poor mouth. All I had to do for the ticket was help decorate -- in other words, lug tables where they told me to.

When I jumped at the freebie -- and, of course, the opportunity to help my fellow man -- I didn't consider the attire it would entail. The gala is always black tie optional, which means wearing at least a really, really nice dress if not a formal. And I had one week to find something.

Plus-plus-plus size formal dresses aren't exactly purchased on a whim. There isn't a wide selection (excuse the pun) just waiting to be plucked off the rack. They have to be ordered from the Yes, We Know This Makes You Look Like Your Grandmother dress catalog.

The timing sent me running to my closet, searching for something, ANYTHING that I could squeeze into and dress up with accessories.

There it was: the black mini dress I wore to a journalism awards ceremony in 1999. (I lost.) It was one size too small, but still attainable with the right reinforcements underneath.

My mission: Find the perfect girdle. Combined with some control-top nylons, it just might work, I thought.

The night of the big event, I actually broke into a sweat getting into those reinforced undergarments. I pulled. I yanked. I tugged. Finally, I was in.

And I immediately had to go to the bathroom.

The gala was absolutely stunning, everything I'd imagined and more. Ice sculptures. Caviar. Open bar during the cocktail hour. A live band. Silver bows on each individual seat. Open bar during the cocktail hour. Real china. Tropical flowers. Open bar during the cocktail hour.

My outfit was a miracle of human genius and modern science. I was using the black tablecloth to hide the fact it was too short when I sat down. Lycra was keeping the seams from exploding. The occasional trip to the restroom allowed me to yank on the leg bands of the girdle, which were creeping up and cutting off the blood to my thighs.

During one of my trips, I heard two cool ladies chatting in front of the mirrors.

"Can you believe the ridiculous straps on this thing?" one of them said. "People think women just love a reason to get all dressed up, but after a couple of hours, I'm done with this (expletive deleted)."

"I hear you," the other one replied.

All too soon, it was time to leave. Of course I hadn't used valet parking, because that would have meant the valets and some gala guests seeing heaven knows what as I exited my vehicle.

Instead, I parked well away from the door. That advance planning allowed me to shimmy out of the girdle before attempting to get back into my car. The thing wouldn't even fit into my ridiculously small evening bag.

It was fun to look good for one night, but now I'm back to my regular attire: elastic waists, roomy sleeves, plenty of length.

Next year, I'm thinking muumuu.

Heidi Hall is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.