The Saga: Survival Update 10

Cupids, 

It’s T-minus 3 hours until Mr. NCOhMyGod gets here.

And I should’ve started getting ready 5 hours ago. There’s a lot that goes into taking me from “working girl” to “working it girl.” 

But at least I made some progress: dress is out of the closet, shoes are next to it, and Spanx are on stand-by. 

Just kidding. I have one foot already in the leg hole. 

I know y’all asked for a GRWM, but I’m not sure how that would work. 

Do I take notes? Write down everything I do–as I’m doing it? Attach links and product shots and paste them to a blog post? 

That’s a lot of work that I don’t have time for. 

I have exactly 90 minutes to figure out how to wedge the rest of my body into my Spanx and get all the lumpy parts smoothed upward in one unbroken motion.

GRWMs are for TikTok and Instagram. Not middle-aged moms who blog, getting ready for a friend date to a formal. 

With a friend. 

A very good looking friend. 

Who is abnormally tall, and unfairly hot. 

Next to him, I’m gonna look like a yard gnome in a red dress. A dress with a neckline just low enough to suggest I might have boobs… but also not. 

We’re gonna walk into this looking like fucking Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

I’ll be playing the part of Danny DeVito, by the way. If that wasn’t obvious. 

Why do I care if we’re just going as friends? Because as much as I don’t want to look like Mr. GetsAroundAlot’s flavor of the week, I really don’t want to look like a Make-A-Wish date. 

So, I need to look like a really pretty cross-dressed Danny DeVito. Or at the very least, someone that makes sense for him to bring to a formal event. 

But even if I don’t, it probably won’t keep Mr. HandsMcFingers from torturing me tonight. He’d do it on principle alone.

Speaking of which, based on extensive field research (unwillingly collected), I predict Mr. NCO will deploy the following maneuvers tonight:

1. Request a pre-formal GRWM selfie because narcissism is his love language
2. Send one of himself (see above)
3. Make at least three innuendos about my mouth, ass, or tits before we even arrive 
4. Mention the fit of his uniform, his physique, or his workout routine minimum four times before the first hour is up
5. Say something wildly inappropriate during formal conversation, 
6. Ask me to slow dance, placing his massive hands in “accidentally” non-platonic zones

Given these tactical projections, I’m considering wearing a bedazzled habit and military-grade chastity belt. Perhaps with sensible orthopedic shoes for quick escape.

I was crystal clear that this wasn’t a date. 

It’s what the Pentagon would classify as a “strategic non-romantic deployment of two individuals with established rapport.” 

Translation: Just friends.

If I don’t return to update, assume I died of embarrassment or–no, that would be what happened. 

Either way, pour one out for me. Because I don’t drink. 

If I did… it would probably go about as well as my sexting. And we all know how that went. 

Off to seduce nobody and regret everything

~Chaos in Spanx

P.S. Bestie says the dress makes my ass look “judicial” (her word, not mine). Can anyone tell me what that means? Thanks.