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.

Fashion Senseless

I have the worst fashion sense. My closet is a sea of black, brown or if I’m feeling adventurous, tan. Ever since I left my job in August all I wear are yoga pants. Sexy, I know.  In the summer I’m sure to break out some khaki shorts, but not short-shorts; the dimplage on my legs makes me throw up in my mouth and as I found out recently in a shared dressing room experience with my 12 year old daughter..”it’s quite disturbing.”

My Mom (Sally) is a great dresser. She can throw outfits together like nobody’s business. In fact, when I have events back home I don’t bother to pack much because I know she’s got my back, right down to the shoes and accessories. I simple pull out what I’m going to wear, she takes one look at me and we’re off to her closet.

That’s why to this day I can’t understand what went wrong at my Grade 8 graduation. I obviously needed a dress and as always Sally was going shopping with me because she loved to be in charge involved in the decision. It wasn’t an easy job buying clothes for me. I wasn’t a willing participant. I was chunky and hated how clothes clung to my stomach rolls. It made me very uncomfortable and self conscious. So needless to say I was always in baggy, frumpy  clothes.

Thank God for Parachute pants. Barf.

Every dress I tried on was too poofy, frilly, lacy or tight. Probably because they actually touched my skin. Plus I was 13,  grumpy, listened to heavy metal and just wanted to shuffle home in my high tops and concert shirt and wallow in my room.

As I recall we didn’t come to an agreement, which I’m sure was frustrating for Sally but equally painful for me, after all I was the one who had to wear a dress. Finally one day she just brought home a dress. I didn’t question. It fit. Decision made.

Notice my radiant smile…and that I’m cutting cake…

On the night of the graduation I stuffed myself into this foreign material feeling shy and awkward. All the other girls seemed to be doing just fine in their pretty little frilly things. I hunched my shoulders and went to my seat, passing some late people coming up the aisle. Since my glance was downward I spied the dress first. We were side by side. Just me and the person wearing the same dress as me.

Horror.  It couldn’t get worse.

I slowly lifted my gaze.

It was somebody’s Mother…

I died a little inside. Sally did too.

I hadn’t thought about it for years until Facebook (the nasty prick) came along and someone tagged me in a picture for the entire world to see.

Thanks Izzy! Love you!

Once again I was forced to erase my memory of this event and had successfully done so until a few weeks ago when I had to buy something with bright colours to wear to see Oprah. It took forever. Since I still carry the same body image as my 13 year old self nothing I found looked good on me and Sally was miles away. Finally I just made a decision out of exhaustion and went with a bright orangey pink blouse.

(Side note: Do we still say blouse?)

After the show I saw these two cute old ladies coming our way and I turned to my firend to remark about seeing our future, but has I did something drew my eye back to them.

One walked with a cane, wore polyester pants and (drum roll) was sporting the same blouse as me.

This memory will never ever die.

And the blouse (?) will never be seen again.

On a positive note, I totally would’ve kicked her ass in a Who Wore It Best competition.