Working in the beauty industry, I have noticed nobody appreciates the size they are, until they are no longer that size. This is not about the pressures society puts on girls and women to be a particular size, or anything of that nature. This is also not my attempt at fishing for compliments, because I know what I look like, and I know what I need to do if I want to change things.
This is about the evil that is spanx.
Earlier this week, I had a very important meeting. So important that I decided to pull out my lucky suit, the one I wore to my defense 7 years and 20 pounds ago. I probably should have tried it on earlier than an hour before the meeting, but hey, let's not judge on this beautiful Fall day.
The first sign things might be amiss was when I put on the blazer, my arms could barely squeeze through. Guns? Uh, no. Unless you count overstuffed sausages as "muscles"...not so much. Putting that aside, I went on a fervent hunt for my tried and true spanx. This baby wears like a high-waisted underwear, tucking everything in nice and tight. I don't know where or how it squeezes everything in (I suspect squishing all the fat together and minimizing the space between cells), but it does it. Of course, it also holds EVERYTHING in, so when you finally relieve the pent up gas, you will shoot through the room like a jet-pack.
I don't know when I bought that spanx, but I suspect it was also 20 pounds ago. Getting into it without pulling a muscle or breaking a bone was nothing short of a miracle. If I ever attempt this again, it might be best to employ Sam's help. He would have to hold it, and I will just have to pray that when I jump off the roof, I hit my target and avoid injury. After much thought, manipulating, praying, and negotiating, I pulled it on. Everything in my torso tucked in, I was able to pull on my skirt AND pull up the zipper. Score!!!
Then I looked in the mirror.
Two pigs fighting under a blanket is one way to put it. Two pigs fighting inside a toddler-sized sleeping bag is more accurate. And on top of that, you could see the underwear line! Horror of all horrors!!! Then, I did the unthinkable--I tried to walk. I've never really given much thought to the art of being a geisha, but I'm pretty sure I have the walk/shuffle down pat, except for the fact I don't think geishas shuffle because they are pulling two fighting pigs inside a too-small sleeping bag behind them.
Time was running short. Very short. If you are eating, or plan on eating anytime in the near future (like ever), you might stop reading. I take no responsibility for you becoming a bulimic after reading what follows.
Once I got past the shuffle, I thought "Forget it. Just go with it. It's too late, and there's not another suit in the closet." But as I shuffled away, I realized I. Could. Not. Do. It. I could not go into a very important meeting, skirt stretched beyond capacity in the front AND back, so tight you could tell if I had shaved my thighs or not. So, I shuffled back to my room, shimmied out of the skirt, and peeled the devil spanx off. It may or may not have ricocheted off the wall and broken the ceiling fan. Either way, I'm in the market for a new ceiling fan for my bedroom.
I rifled through my drawer and found a thong underwear (is that what you call it?!!), pulled it on, shimmied back into the skirt, and prayed to God and any deity that might be listening that nothing falls out.
Stupid, evil spanx. I'll be getting another one when I buy a new suit.
