Never underestimate the power of a good "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder"

The end is in sight.

To recap, I bought a pretty lace, beaded, chocolate brown cocktail dress for the gala I am attending this weekend. It took me a few tries to get the right size, but it fits. And I didn't have the strength to keep on shopping. So I kept it, knowing that I would need industrial strength Spanx to, as Tim Gunn says, "make it work."

As a woman with curves (re. fat) I am well versed on the many varieties of shapewear on the market. Because I currently own most of them. Or have owned them in the past. But nothing in my current stash quite worked with the dress. So Last week I went with a friend over to Alice Rae in Scottsdale. For those of you not familiar with this place let me tell you, this is hands-down the BEST intimate apparel store in town (southeast corner of Scottsdale and Shea, across from Oregano's). Screw Oprah and her "Bra Whisperer" over at Fashion Square. Julia at Alice Rae my new hero.

I first discovered Alice Rae in 2005. I was getting ready to go back to work full-time and had stopped nursing Thing #1. Someone referred me there in order to get a real bra. As in, one that actually fit. Let me tell you, it was WAY cheaper than a boob job and without the bruising and chicken-cutlet look. Over the years I've referred people to the store and I've been back myself (they made shopping for a bustier for a bridesmaid dress a little less horrific). It's not cheap, but they know what they're doing and it's worth every penny.

So me, the friend and the dress headed over to Alice Rae. Tried on a few things, learned that I lost a cup size, and ordered something called a cincher. If you're not sure what it is Google it. Bottom line? When you wear it it smooths your stomach, gets rid of the back fat, and makes me look like a have a waist. Something I last had for about 10 minutes in 1998.

Last night I went back to the store and picked up the cincher and a new bra (which my friend bluntly said, "looks like something leftover from Madonna's Blonde Ambition tour). Took them home and tried them on with the dress.

My daughter's took their eyes off Yo Gabba Gabba long enough to tell me I looked pretty. And that they liked the sparkles.

My husband said wow.

My son didn't understand why I was wearing a dress.

I am my own worst critic. Part of me thinks clean up nicely. The other part of me thinks I look like a sparkly Tootsie Roll.

My intimate apparel for this event cost more than my actual dress (and tragically, I couldn't expense the costs even though they are CLEARLY work-related). I may not be able to sit comfortably, and I haven't figured out how to successfully go to the bathroom while wearing an additional five pounds of spandex and Lycra. But Saturday night my ta-ta's will be pointing to the sky, my stomach will be smoothed over, and my hips will reveal themselves for the first time in 14 years. Even better, the dress looked like it actually belonged on my body.

And if I'm lucky, Saturday night I'll even get to enjoy a drink. Which will *hopefully* give me just enough of a buzz to forget that I possibly look a little sparkly, Tootsie Roll-esque.