An uplifting tale of how to give Amy a boost

Sydney has ALWAYS enjoyed planning parties. So, it wasn't surprising that, when it came to her wedding, she left nothing to chance.

"Have you given any thought to what you're going to wear?" she asked me, casually, on the phone. I glanced at the calendar. We were still a good three months out. Plenty of time. "I'll find something," I assured her.

She was not assured.

Amazon recommendations came flying at me like laser bullets at a shooting gallery. I was a sitting duck. 

When I failed to respond in what Sydney Lynn deemed to be a suitable manner, a package arrived in the mail.

Sparkly gold and a tulle lace over-lay. If that didn't scream "Amy Mosiman," I don't know what would.

I wrestled my way into this cupcaked-contraption, pleased with the length. Turning to the mirror, I
gasped. The plunging neckline was positively pornographic. "How does it look?" my husband yelled from the living room. I stormed out to him; the swish and swirl of my skirts softening my appalled entrance. "What's wrong with it?" he asked,"I like it."

Sydney refused to be deterred. "We can fix that," she assured me, "You just need a bustier." Her confident French pronunciation threw me. "Okay," I relented, and waited.

Several days later, the bustier arrived. Covered in sparkly gold sequins.  I squeezed myself into the bustier like it was a wire-covered sausage casing. Oh dear.

"How's it look?" Brad yelled from the living room. Unable to breathe (and horrified), I made my way out to him. He was speechless. "I can't wear this," I gasped, "I'm giving the prayer." The only thing that the bustier had succeeded in doing was to narrow down the genre. I was cast now in the genre of sci-fi porn. The bustier had lifted my ample bosoms up to my ears so that I was now sporting Princess Leia-style honey-buns on each side of my head. "I like it," my husband declared. He is a big fan, obviously, of Star Wars.

I was definitely out of my comfort-zone here. I could not go to my daughter's wedding dressed like an inter-galactic space slut. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a prude but there is a time and a place for everything. I wanted to appear timeless. Classic. Captivating. Like a painting. I didn't want to look matronly but neither did I want to appear like a dominatrix. 

Wait. Is it possible that I may have stumbled into a new frontier of fashion "looks?" 

Domatronix?

We were already half-way there. Brad Mosiman already had a kink in his neck ("My eyes are up here, buddy.") and I enjoy slapstick humor.