Spanx (Images May Be Larger Than They Appear)

© John Takai - Fotolia.comMy body is out of control. I’ve been working out for seven weeks, six times a week and can’t lose a single pound. I have no clothes that fit me and I don’t want to buy any because I plan on losing it. It’s just my body isn’t going along with the plan. My thyroid is fine, I’m drinking green tea, I’m eating my fiber; still my body betrays me.

This past weekend Homer and I were invited to a private function at Ki Modern Japanese Restaurant in Toronto.  I mention the name because it was fantastic and the staff was fabulous and I like to give shout outs when I get good customer service. It’s so important because people just don’t seem to give a shit anymore so when you actually get good service it stands out.

Anyway, another blog for another day.

It’s been about two sizes ago that I’ve gone anywhere dressy. I combed the closet and found a black, kind of stretchy cotton dress I thought I could get away with.

I thought wrong.

I’m not one for girdles or tight control panties, I opt for comfort every time but there was no way I could go anywhere in that form fitting monstrosity. At least, not without some help. I didn’t want to buy anything new because I’m determined to lose the weight so I did what I swore I would never do. I broke down and bought Spanx.

Did I mention I hate tight things? How I value my comfort? These are desperate times people!

I pulled it out of the bag and presented it to Homer. I don’t know why, I guess I just wanted him to have the heads up that we’ve turned a corner. Of course, by this time we were running late so I stepped into them with no time to change my mind. Homer stood there watching me squeeze my flesh into this sausage casing. It wasn’t pretty.  In fact, it was downright fugly. We can never divorce because I don’t want his second wife to give me the “I know you look hideous getting into Spanx” look. I actually hopped across the hall and lured The Girl from her room to assist in hoisting upward and tucking the folds of flesh spilling out the top. She protested but I insisted it was a valuable lesson in reality.

With no time to think about what I was doing we left the house. I really should have thought it through. I figured if all those people at the Oscars could do it, so could I. I just have to pretend I’m going to the Oscars, I told myself, which isn’t easy sitting shot gun in a four year old Caravan.

I don’t know if anyone can fully prepare themselves for the Spanx experience. Just the logistics of such a contraption alone are exhausting. Standing was good for a while, I could at least squeak in the odd breath, but ten minutes into the sit down meal my legs went numb. And it never occurred to me that going to the bathroom might require an escape plan.

I held it as long as I could, which wasn’t long since my bladder was constricted to half its size from being wedged into my spine. If you’re going to do this you might want to consider bringing a friend and a drink to the can because you’re going to be a while.  I shut the stall door behind me and for the first time that evening thought something through. This time I didn’t have The Girl to help me, so I had to go into old school bush party mode and move the crotch of my Spanx to the side to pee and pray for no spillage. It all went well and I think I actually heard my vagina thank me for the breather.

By the time we got home I practically shoved the babysitter out the door and shed my dress right there in the foyer. I tore at the material and released my belly. At first I think it was in shock and then all sorts of unladylike bodily functions happened.  There I was overcome with a huge sense of relief until the cramps came and then the pain.

Clearly my body was punishing me.

I’m pretty sure I may have some internal injuries.

So the moral of this story is, use at your own risk because unless I’m ever attending the Oscars, you can count me out Spanx. I’m either wrapping up in a huge tensor bandage (hey, at least there some elasticity) or I’m going full on blubber.

Nostalgic Tears

© west7megan - Fotolia.comI’m crying like a big blubbering baby this morning. My Aunt died yesterday. An Aunt I haven’t seen in over 15 years. It wasn’t sudden. She was very sick, but I guess it’s what it represents that has me in a puddle.

On the surface I struggled with the decision of whether to drive the 3 hours to her service. In the end, with Homer working this weekend and the kids needing to complete projects for school on Monday, I decided not to go. It’s a logical decision but one that makes my heart hurt. In some respects I would feel a little hypocritical. Like I said, I haven’t seen her in years, who am I to just show up like the big hero from the big city and start blubbering now? It’s not like I was never in her area to visit. I’d thought about it many times over the years, it could’ve been done, I just didn’t and I have no excuse. I loved her, she was a kind woman who deserves the best of a final tribute and I’m sorry I’m not going to be there for her two sons, my cousins, whom I miss immensely even though it seems we barely know each other anymore.

And cue the tears. Over the years our entire family has dissolved. Meeting for Sunday dinners, playing catch in the backyard and hide and seek in the basement over time just disintegrated.  It all started with one untimely death, and then another and another.

Our fathers were brothers, good guys with hearts of gold who died of a family heart condition too young, leaving those two boys, my sister and I devastated. We all grew apart, got married and had our own families. We no longer had any reason to get together, busy with kids and life and let’s face it our own lack of effort. We don’t get together to share memories, break bread and catch up we just simply moved on and when I think about it my heart breaks.

I’ll be honest, for years I’ve miss those boys, those people who share half my heritage. I was proud to be a Medd, so proud that I refused to change my name when I was married because my father (having had two girls) didn’t have anyone to carry on the name on his behalf. Plus, I secretly think he wanted me to be a boy.

I did my tomboy best, I rode mini bikes and snowmobiles, but it was on those Sunday visits when those two cousins would take me outside and teach me the proper way to catch a baseball or shoot a puck when I felt special and a part of something. I would have followed them anywhere and in some cases I did. I went to their hockey games because I just wanted to see them, even if we didn’t get the chance to talk. A quick wave from the ice was enough for me to feel connected.

So today I guess I’m mourning the loss of that connection. I’m mourning the little girl in me who misses her family, Sunday dinners and specifically her cousins. I feel extreme pain for them in the loss of their wonderful, loving mother and wish them all the peace that comes with knowing she is no longer suffering.  And I’m hopeful for a future meeting of the Medds’ at a place other than a funeral home where we can once again break bread, get through the awkward silences and get to know each other again.

Peace out Aunt Sheila, thanks for all the Sunday roasts.