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.