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Once upon a time there were two sisters whose pantalettes were in a pucker. Their mother, a penniless widow with some repute for reducing liverymen to tears, had snagged herself a rich husband. Even better, from her perspective: He was sickly and unlikely to burden her with his presence for long. Sure enough, one day soon after their wedding, under the mordant gaze of his new bride, he turned his head, coughed onto his pillow, and died.
Though the man had lacked the intelligence to avoid marrying the ruthless lady in the first place, he did have enough wherewithal to stipulate the terms of his will: His wife would inherit his manor and his fortune, but she had to continue to provide a home for his daughter as long as the young maiden needed one.
And that’s where those puckered pantalettes came in. The daughter, Ella, was comely and sweet tempered. Her stepsisters simply loathed her.
For they were nothing like her. It’s not that there was anything wrong with Peculia’s features, individually. Her eyes were a bit beady, it was true, and her lips too thin to cover that protruding bite. But in combination her features brought an unsettling grimace to her countenance. A nip here, a tuck there—and she would have looked less frightening.
For her part, Stenchia awakened the senses. She looked dreadful, she smelled like potatoes left to rot in their bin, her skin was scaly, her voice was harsh and flinty, and, as the tongue of the only mongrel that had ever bitten her swelled alarmingly, her taste, we can only assume, was toxic.
The two sisters’ difficulty in attracting suitors only inflamed their ill temper. So they vented their frustration on their lovely stepsister, making her their personal maid, heaping chores on her, and calling her Cinderella for the cinders she swept from the hearth each morning.
One day there was a knock at the door; a courtier had come to issue an invitation to a royal ball that very evening. Peculia and Stenchia flew to their wardrobes, and poor Cinderella had to help wedge them into a range of voluminous gowns. After several hours of tugging and screeching, they were at last begowned, bewigged, and beyond a doubt the two mangiest specimens of womanhood the kingdom had ever seen.
The two sisters and their mother hastened for the ball without even a backward sneer at Cinderella. At last alone, she mounted the stairs to her garret and pulled out her only gown, one she had rescued from the ashcan years earlier. Cinderella donned the dress and approached the mirror hopefully. But it was no use: the sapphire drapery poked out here and there in unsightly bulges. For Cinderella’s figure had a flaw: She looked graceful up top, but around the middle she was rounded and puckered and lumpen. Even stark naked in the privacy of her bleak garret, she looked like she was wearing a pillow—two, really, one in front and one in back, like a bustle.
Cinderella dragged herself back downstairs, sank down near the hearth, and wept. Just then a cloud of what seemed to be fireflies gathered around her. As she looked up in wonder, the tiny lights suddenly burst, and her fairy godmother stood before her.
“This won’t do, dearie!” the good fairy cried out. “Dry those tears! You simply need a proper ballgown!” And with a wave of the fairy godmother’s wand, Cinderella was clad in a white gossamer gown with a thin overlay of the most delicate gold lacing that tiny fairy hands could tat. Cinderella looked beautiful, except for that unfortunate double-bustle effect. “Oh, this won’t do either!” the fairy godmother exclaimed, and, with another wave of her wand—poof!—an 18-Hour Girdle flew up under Cinderella’s skirt and pressed her into shape. Her figure now trim, she looked truly stunning.
Just as Cinderella went traipsing out the door, her fairy godmother called out a warning. “Just remember!” she warbled. “Your girdle is set to expire at midnight. You must leave the ball before then or all will be lost.”
With her undercarriage problem now solved, Cinderella happily stepped into the magical carriage awaiting her. The ride to the palace took mere minutes. As soon as our heroine entered the ballroom, she met the ardent gaze of the prince and the two fell into instant adoration. They waltzed until dawn—or would have, if the royal clock hadn’t started tolling midnight. Just then Cinderella remembered her fairy godmother’s warning—and just then she felt the seams of her girdle beginning to loosen.
Without a word to the prince she fled. As she raced down the last of the palace steps, the clock sounded its final chime. Her girdle unstitched itself and fell into a messy heap. And Cinderella’s figure resumed its lumpish proportions. Prince Charming dashed down the steps just a moment too late; Cinderella had already jiggled out of sight, and the only trace of her was the abandoned girdle.
Determined to reclaim the lovely maiden, the prince traveled from house to house in search of the girdle’s true owner. At last he came to Cinderella’s home. There his courtiers averted their eyes as they gingerly circled first Peculia and then Stenchia with the panels of the 18-Hour Girdle, but even an enchanted girdle has its limitations.
Just as the royal party was readying to depart, Cinderella stepped forward. The courtiers were reaching the garment toward her when suddenly it flew beneath her humble dress and restitched itself, rendering her shapely once more. The prince fell to one knee and begged her to be his bride.
As a wedding gift the fairy godmother gave Cinderella a 24-Hour Girdle, and she and Prince Charming lived happily ever after.
