Spanxed!

I needed an undergarment for my new sweater dress which hugs my curves a little too well. However, it was Sunday night when I decided this, and in Marshall’s all I could find was Spanx.

First off, this “shaper” on the hanger looks like a body bandage for a two-year-old, though the tag said it was LARGE. It fits me from boobage to mid thighs. I did look stylin’ in my sweater dress, and I wore the ensemble, including black bootery, all day. However, a lot of tugging occurred, as my Lycra contraption rolled up from the bottom and down from the top. I gave in by early afternoon and let the girls free, since they have little tolerance for compression at a hundred-thousand pounds per cup. And may I say, an elastic band under the boobcage gives you a real appreciation for rodeo broncs, all cinched up while they buck around the arena. Still, I survived my discomfort for the sake of looking HAWT.

Later that evening, in my closet, I tried to take off the Spanx. You might think:  "easy peasy." But you would be wrong. Perhaps it was the route I took. The over-the-head route. I had grabbed the hem and pulled it all the way up, over my head, at which point I realized, with my arms pinned across my chest, elbows akimbo, and Lycra stretched as taut as a Bay Bridge cable, I had effectively strait-jacketed myself. That's because wearing Spanx is like stuffing yourself into an elf’s condom. Unless you can shrivel up on demand, you're a captive little fucker.

So I stumbled around my closet, in a wrestling match with my Spanx, and gave myself a full nelson. Extremely disoriented, I tripped over my boots and flailed around on the floor. I paused in my hapless exertion to enjoy a moment of debilitating terror, wherein I imagined I might die and no one would find me till the next day when my putrefying scent would overpower the catbox. That, or being so tightly encased, if the thing hardened, I might actually emerge with wings and a penchant for light bulbs.

Fifteen minutes later, I managed a Houdini-esque escape by dislocating both shoulders and using my rabid spittle as a lube. I staggered to the shower, exhausted, out of breath, my hair electrified, and I stood under the water in a daze—like Goldie Hawn in Overboard after her nightmare with a chainsaw. Buh, buh, buh, buh.

Tragically, my cat Matilda saw the whole thing. Next morning, she hunkered down and growled as I waved the spanx in her face in an effort to desensitize her. When I left her, she was mumbling incoherently about throwing herself in front of a car.

Heed my warnings, people. Spanx should be worn at your own risk. I’m in recovery now, wearing slacks too sizes too big and a bulky sweater that leaves me shapeless. Ramping up for:  Spanx vs. Me, Round 2.
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