Castaway and Cutouts

Yesterday was May Day, despite many invites to go marching for better wages and benefits for university teachers (slaves might be more accurate, since the pay is pretty much a joke) I decided to take my holiday seriously and as comrade Lenin had intended. Namely, I spent the international workers’ day by fanning about at my ivory tower doing mostly nothing of consequence. Although, I did manage to leave the house for a little while, in order to get my hands on nice big stash of surgical gauze. Yes, you read that right. Gauze. Surgical gauze. I bought roughly 10 packets and a pair of surgical scissors (which were supposed to be strong enough for my project — they weren’t). My May Day was intended to make a plaster cast of my voluptuous curves.

Plastered



This may seem random, but it’s not quite out of the blue. It’s for a dress form I found out be absolutely necessary in order to draft a pattern for my next sewing mission impossible; the EL-luminated TRON-esque bodysuit. Up until now, I’ve been working with my ever-discouraging grandmother for all of my custom-made changes to my Burda patterns. All changes are extremely difficult to get her to fathom, let alone try out. It’s is an excruciatingly tedious and tiresome process, and never up to her good standards. This is my somewhat extreme jailbreak for all of my ensuing sewing blasphemy for yet to come alive.

Anyways, as I was saying. I got the gauze and surgical scissors, I already had two decades old plaster lying around the house — apparently my mother had intended to make plaster-type jewelry when she was still married to my father(!) Hence, a rough estimate yields at least 20 odd years old plaster. Like mother, like daughter; hoarding is hereditary. Now, I had everything in place for a plastered night in.

My mother had the excellent idea of having my sister-in-law because she would benefit from the practice of casting plaster (fyi: she’s studying to become a nurse), so when she come over to the house last night we set the cogs in motion and started getting ourselves dirty. We very soon found out that the plaster we had at hand was nowhere near sufficient. I had seen some very contradictory internet sources for a the ‘correct’ water-to-plaster ratio, all from 2:1 to 1:2 so I just decided to not give it too much thought and just hope for the best. Well, what we managed to do out of the materials at hand were two rock-solid thighs. One picture perfect replica of my inner thigh, and a 3/4 thigh that kind of got dismantled due to the pitifully weak surgical scissors. The rest was gooey gunk that immediately hit the wastebasket.

Hint of leg...

In intimate detail; the pantyline

You can literally see the little dimples of the skin in vivid detail, and a very adorable lacy pantyline. A tiny cute factor midst the scariness. It was kind of worth it, although the body lotion did not seem to work as good as it should, since it felt was very much like taking a gazillion little band-aids over painstakingly long periods. The bikini-line was exceptionally excruciating, and by no means as quick as my Argentinean friend who was the last (officially) known person having examined that region in depth. If there is still hairs left on my thighs, they certainly deserve to stay there until the end of time for having hold on to dear life.

Although the person whom I am copying foretold that this was a shivering cold process, I found the casting to be a very hot process. I felt at times if I were on fire, thank heavens that was all/mostly in my mind. At least my heat rashes very quickly subsided, so no harm no foul.

Now I just need to muster the courage to plaster the rest of my torso. I don’t think of this as a failed attempt, by no means. I now know some key features before giving it another go. For instance, I need proper surgical scissors — unless I will be wearing a plaster cast until it disintegrates into nothingness. I will probably need to bathe in baby oil prior to plaster basting. My sister-in-law gave me a very compelling argument to steer clear from Vaseline, because apparently petroleum jelly (i. júgursmyrsl) is a nasty no-no since that would conserve heat and excel burning. And we don’t want that.

Stay tuned for another exciting entry in my pursuit of custom dress form!

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About tungufoss

a PhD student that sews whilst her code compiles...

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