Livy—Mary
Livingston, I presume—was on the spot with a device that looked to me
like a life preserver. Eyeing it suspiciously, I insisted on an
explanation before I would let her get any closer with it. All I got,
though, was a smart slap on my rear end followed by gales of laughter
from Livy. After the laughter had subsided, the tallest of the four
girls, who was likewise the most dignified, introduced herself to me as
“Mary, call me ‘Seton.’”
“The
bumroll goes beneath your gown, Dolly. It will make your skirts flare
out becomingly, like ours do,” Seton said. She illustrated by placing
her hands on the top of her skirt, which flared out from her waist with
enough flat surface at the top to rest a teacup on.
Had
all my years of Jazzercise, I wondered sadly, been in vain? I winced at
the thought that a million plié squats had come to this but guessed it
would be best to just bumroll with the punches.
“Maestro,
a drumroll for the bumroll!” I said to Livy, proffering her my rear end
with a jaunty wiggle. Betty Boop might have been impressed, but Livy
was not.
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