Last Christmas, I got invited to a popular people party. Like the really popular pretty people who are über cool, not in an annoying, I’m better than you snot-faced attitude, but in an, I wish I were more like them-can’t we just be friends sort of way.
It may have been a mistake, but I didn’t care, I rsvp’d absofuckinglutely and showed up with bells on.
Maybe not bells, but spanx.
I wanted to look smooth and svelt, not sweaty and sausagey. It wasn’t my first time wearing the torture garment, but I guess I forgot exactly how torturous it was. I neglected, however, to take into account for movement, and nobody warned me.
The movement of me and mine when standing absolutely still with a drink in hand, the cocktail ripples forecasting the impending storm like Jurassic Park. My body ached and oozed to escape their confines like a Pillsbury crescent roll. Exactly like a Pillsbury Crescent Roll.
The spanx were on the move, rolling down to free my belly, slow at first, quickly gathering momentum.
Then the leg holes took notice: Don’t leave me here!!! Take us with you! sliding up to free my thighs, teeny-tiny increments growing into a powerful riptide.
Whudda thunk Spanx could be harnessed for renewable energy? Not me for one; they look harmless enough, resembling Under Armor athletic compression pants, the kind athletes wear under uniforms, and middle-aged moms like me wear under their holiday formal wear so they can dress to impress. Or not.
Let’s call it what it is: a victorian-esque girdle without all the eye hooks and laces that would actually hold my organs in place instead of freeing them like the gate was left open so the horses could run free. Somebody forgot to latch the gate.
My body was escaping the spanx and there was nothing stopping it
Could the pretty people sense my panic? That my undies were abandoning ship and mutiny was attacking my muffin(top)?
Did everyone know my squish was migrating? I didn’t think so, but needed to pull, tuck, push everything back in place before the spanx snapped up permanently into my crack and I’d need a weekend in the Poconos to retrieve it.
I was cringing, fearful of an elastic slingshot taking out the party guests or my crotch, and slowly sauntered into a quiet corner of conversationalists, desperate to put up a roadblock before the wedgy permanently wedged. All the while trying to breathe, and appear cool, gracious, and smooth, like I belonged there.
Which I did not, which was abundantly clear, if not to the holiday revelers, but to my panicked, sweaty, nervous, sober self.
I literally backed into a petite, pretty party goer, a soccer mom I’ve known for ages (not this one). “Oh, sorry,” I apologized, nervous and shaky. She took one look at me, gracefully put her drink down, grabbed both sides of my hips, gathering handfuls of rolled elastic into her fists then yanked with a clear, clean jerk, straight up, nearly lifting me right off the ground.
She then knelt on bended knee behind me, tapped me on the ass, and said loud enough for me and I think everyone around us to hear: “May I?”
May she what? Flabbergasted, I just nodded approval at the top of her head, and felt both her hands up my sparkly dress – up close and personal – one leg at a time, and her fingers went to work, unraveling the sausage casings down one thigh, and then the other.
“I could tell your spanx were on the move,” she said, standing up and taking her drink like it was just another day at the office. “You were freaking out; glad I could help.” We clinked glasses, and she resumed her conversation with friends. I eyed the women around us. They were barely paying attention.
One looked up from her comfy spot on the sofa and eyeballed me. “Spanx? No frickin’ way. Wore them to a wedding once and they nearly killed me. Left them in a bathroom stall and never looked back.”
“I left mine on the back of a toilet at my office party. They’ll be wondering all night whose they are!”
“I haven’t worn those death traps since my high school reunion. Not a chance.”
“Do you think for one second a guy would wear those things?”
“Take ’em off. Ain’t nobody got time for that nonsense.”
“Get rid of ’em right now. Bathroom’s over there. Spanx on the tank, baby, spanx on the tank.”
NaBloPoMo National Blog Posting Month posting once a day for November and almost done! Apologies for typos in an effort to meet the challenge. Thanks for sticking with me!
I was at a friend’s wedding, feeling more nauseous by the minute, thinking surely I didn’t drink that much. When I went into the ladies room and pulled them down…and my organs repositioned themselves immediately felt better and that bitch went right into the garbage bin.
I’ve only worn them once semi-successfully, and my latest spanxtastophe is in an upcoming post.
But that’s a real friend there.
Kate Mayer says
ill be sure to read it!
look around; from this point on every formal gathering will reveal women standing up and yanking, pulling, straightening, underreaching … .. we don’t EVEN try to hide it anymore 🙂 FREEDOMMmm
Kate Mayer says
Sing it sis-tah!!
they’re also handy when, wearing skirt you go toe-up in a fall at church (pointing at myself, here) while congratulating Pastor on Sermon
Kate Mayer says
OMG, I really loved reading this!! I wear spanx and this totally expressed my sentiments many times.
Kate Mayer says
leave ’em home, or worst case scenario, on the tank.