Sometimes, I glance at my reflection and think “Ugh, woman. Get thee to the gym and put on some makeup.” Sometimes, I’ll look at myself and think, “You sexy bitch MILF cougar,” (or leopard, or whatever cat-word people use to describe hotsy-totsy women of a certain age). Like many of us, I’m my own worst critic, wanting to look younger, thinner, or smoother.
I recently had occasion to wear a slinky dress–the kind of thing that looks great if you don’t have any lumpy, bumpy, or jiggly bits. And, listen up bitches, if you don’t have at least one unwanted jiggly spot, we can’t be friends. Truthfully, I think most of my figure problems live in my own mind, but that said, I decided the answer to my jiggle issues could be found in the ladies lingerie department. Spandex would be my friend.
I darted through the gauntlet of matchy-matchy bras and panties, past the man-pleaser frillies (and those weird little rubber stick-on thingies that women with no boobs wear when they want to achieve the braless look), and in to the no-nonsense corner with the discreet “shapewear” sign.
Shapewear is a polite word for girdle, right? We can say bodyshaper all day long but we all know it’s a freakin’ girdle. No pretty colors here, just nude, white, basic black. The message was loud and clear: we mean business with your underwear.
Once I convinced the lady with three tape measures looped around her various body parts that, no, I didn’t need a complimentary fitting for “foundation garments” thankyouverymuch, I pawed through the selection of spandex designed to lift, separate and suck in your various problem areas. I decided a support tank was the ticket. It looked innocent enough, like a normal tank (although picking it up might count as a workout; this shit was made of some serious armor).
All the better to compress your back fat, my dear.
I bought my fat armor without road testing it, mostly because tape measure lady was eyeballing me in a way that freaked me out a little. She looked like she couldn’t wait to get her measuring tapes on me, and I have enough body anxiety without raising my hand to be prodded by a stranger whose goal was to custom fit me for sensible over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. The idea of having my squishy bits poked and measured in the harsh dressing room light made me a little twitchy, so I whipped out the plastic and sealed the deal. I was now the proud owner of a girdle. Err… shapewear.
I took my new support tank home and threw it in the drawer until launch day. Naturally, I was in a hurry and sweaty when it came time to suit up. Rushed and damp are not good things to be when you are trying to wiggle your jelly into squeezy armor. Or a support tank. Or a girdle.
There were some serious contortions going on behind the bathroom floor. Getting into this thing required moves worthy of a 13-year-old double-jointed gymnast.
I spotted a bottle of hand lotion on my vanity and seriously considered greasing myself up to make this thing slide on easier. I remembered the tube of stuff that starts with “K” and ends with “Y” in the drawer beside my bed and wondered if that might work better. Yes, I really thought about this. I was late and getting a little desperate.
My husband was impatiently waiting on the other side of the locked door, asking “what the hell’s going on in there” about every 3o seconds. I am not a bathroom door locker but there was no way he was getting an eyeful of this. “For better or worse” be damned… I knew the effect just wouldn’t be the same if my dearly beloved saw my sweaty ass trying to shimmy in to this tank top that would surely make me look fabulous. And yeah…the label said “Made in Bangladesh” but that shit wasn’t fooling me. There was only one place this thing could have come from and it’s considerably further south.
Imagine squeezing extra-small sweatpants over a size large ass. The laws of physics say possible. The law of Jill says don’t try it at home.
I managed to get this garment of Satan on without dislocating my shoulder, which is a small miracle. I was completely covered with sweat. I needed a blow dryer, more deodorant, fresh make-up, and a shot of vodka. Maybe two shots. The party I’d been looking forward to all week held about as much appeal as a pap smear. I was exhausted and disheveled and beating myself up about the cookies I’d had for lunch.
Now safely ensconced, I admired my Lycra encased midsection and thought “hmm, not bad”…then I decided to breathe. Big mistake. The bottom of the tank snapped up like a window shade, coming to sudden and alarming stop underneath my rib. This malfunction left a squishy ball of stomach flab desperately looking for a home. I tugged my errant top back into position. There. It looked great until I moved…then my fat armour rolled back up even higher this time and landed under my ta-tas, not serving the purpose of making me look smooth and shapely. At all.
I tried everything to make the damn thing stay put, stopping short of using a safety pin to connect it to my underwear or crafting some sort harness out of duct tape. Come on, I have my limits, people.
In the end, I ditched the shapewear in favor of some supportive granny panties. Maybe they didn’t hold it all in, but I was able to breathe, smile, dance and most importantly, to rock my frock–jiggly bits and all.
My takeaways: One, you can’t have fun if you’re overly worried about your underwear getting twisted – literally or figuratively. And two, spandex is the devil’s fabric.
Spandex monster – 0. Jill – 1.