Today I crossed a threshold into a stage of life that I never thought I’d cross. It is a step that once taken, cannot be undone. It is permanent. It is forever. I bought my first Spanx tank.
It is black and has adjustable spaghetti straps. It promises firm control and the pictures on the attached tag are nothing short of unbelievable. Which is excellent because I need a miracle before 7:00pm on Friday.
So now you ask, “What kind of miracle does a 38 year old divorced woman need that requires the purchase of a medieval device of torture?”
A Halloween costume party.
Let’s start at the beginning.
I am hosting a costume party. At my house. For both adults and children. I haven’t worn a costume since I dressed up as Gene Simmons when I was 14. I was having hard time deciding on a costume idea until one cursed day 2 weeks ago when I threw on a pair of my running pants (read that as leggings). They are black. They are skin tight. They are shiny. Who in the holy hell wears SHINY black leggings? *lightbulb*
“Hey!! These look just like the pants Sandy wears after her makeover in Grease. OMG. I just got a haircut, and now my curly blonde hair is in a bob. Just like Sandy. GIRLS, guess who just got her costume idea……” My daughters were enthusiastically supportive of my idea, “Mom, nobody your age would dress up like that except you.”
“Mom, you are aware that Sandy is a high school character right?”
See that, they think I’m young looking AND creatively unique.
I have now assembled my pants, tank, red lipstick, red shoes and red neckerchief. I’ll have a leather jacket acquired as soon as I ask Facebook world. And then I remember. I have one bonus part of the costume that was not part of the original character’s look. A mid section that has carried and birthed 4 children. Shit.
And so I here I am. Standing in front of a selection of shapewear. Weighing my options. I could get the bodysuit which will push my b-cups up to my chin, press my stomach back into my spine and compress my vital organs up into my ribcage, take any spillover below the waist where it will shape my tookus into a round piece of wonder reminiscent of Nicki Minaj or Iggy Azalea, and offers moderate shaping of my upper thigh area, but runs the risk of pressing any overflow down to my ankles thus creating the dreaded cankles.
I could get the onesie which will offer all of the above services, minus the thigh control and risk of cankles. In this device, the overflow becomes attractive saddlebags on the outer thigh/hip area which are very enticing to men from the middle ages who view this a trait indicative of the ability to birth sturdy children likely to survive the plague.
And the final option available to me is the tank. This contraption looks like any other layering tank top on the market but it is actually constructed of a space age material that is stronger than chain mail used in shark diving suits, lighter than a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and promises enough support to make invisible (under clothing) any evidence that your body has produced offspring or enjoyed Ben & Jerry’s. I make the executive decision that my tookus is in fact pretty awesome, in need of no assistance and I go with the tank.
And so it is. What is done cannot be undone.
*update*
I required the assistance of two of my children, 3 shoe horns, non-stick spray and oxygen in my first attempt to don the tank. I am undaunted however, and have no time for a costume alternative so I press on.
*update*
I googled “How to breathe while wearing Spanx and now feel confident that I will make it through the party with my consciousness intact.
It is black and has adjustable spaghetti straps. It promises firm control and the pictures on the attached tag are nothing short of unbelievable. Which is excellent because I need a miracle before 7:00pm on Friday.
So now you ask, “What kind of miracle does a 38 year old divorced woman need that requires the purchase of a medieval device of torture?”
A Halloween costume party.
Let’s start at the beginning.
I am hosting a costume party. At my house. For both adults and children. I haven’t worn a costume since I dressed up as Gene Simmons when I was 14. I was having hard time deciding on a costume idea until one cursed day 2 weeks ago when I threw on a pair of my running pants (read that as leggings). They are black. They are skin tight. They are shiny. Who in the holy hell wears SHINY black leggings? *lightbulb*
“Hey!! These look just like the pants Sandy wears after her makeover in Grease. OMG. I just got a haircut, and now my curly blonde hair is in a bob. Just like Sandy. GIRLS, guess who just got her costume idea……” My daughters were enthusiastically supportive of my idea, “Mom, nobody your age would dress up like that except you.”
“Mom, you are aware that Sandy is a high school character right?”
See that, they think I’m young looking AND creatively unique.
I have now assembled my pants, tank, red lipstick, red shoes and red neckerchief. I’ll have a leather jacket acquired as soon as I ask Facebook world. And then I remember. I have one bonus part of the costume that was not part of the original character’s look. A mid section that has carried and birthed 4 children. Shit.
And so I here I am. Standing in front of a selection of shapewear. Weighing my options. I could get the bodysuit which will push my b-cups up to my chin, press my stomach back into my spine and compress my vital organs up into my ribcage, take any spillover below the waist where it will shape my tookus into a round piece of wonder reminiscent of Nicki Minaj or Iggy Azalea, and offers moderate shaping of my upper thigh area, but runs the risk of pressing any overflow down to my ankles thus creating the dreaded cankles.
I could get the onesie which will offer all of the above services, minus the thigh control and risk of cankles. In this device, the overflow becomes attractive saddlebags on the outer thigh/hip area which are very enticing to men from the middle ages who view this a trait indicative of the ability to birth sturdy children likely to survive the plague.
And the final option available to me is the tank. This contraption looks like any other layering tank top on the market but it is actually constructed of a space age material that is stronger than chain mail used in shark diving suits, lighter than a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and promises enough support to make invisible (under clothing) any evidence that your body has produced offspring or enjoyed Ben & Jerry’s. I make the executive decision that my tookus is in fact pretty awesome, in need of no assistance and I go with the tank.
And so it is. What is done cannot be undone.
*update*
I required the assistance of two of my children, 3 shoe horns, non-stick spray and oxygen in my first attempt to don the tank. I am undaunted however, and have no time for a costume alternative so I press on.
*update*
I googled “How to breathe while wearing Spanx and now feel confident that I will make it through the party with my consciousness intact.
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