Guest review by A(n) (un)Common Family
Just shy of three years ago, I’d been a mom for a few months. This is important to note. Because back then, I was still a size 2/4. We adopted our kids and our son was our first. I lost the lousy seven or so pounds I’d put on during the adoption process while we were in Vietnam adopting him, so I returned home, fitting comfortable into my clothes.
Just two months after coming home, my husband’s company had a black tie ball, so I bought a fancy dress. And a pair of Spanx. I have no idea why. I mean, it was a long A-line dress and, oh yeah, I was small. I hadn’t finished losing the muscle I once had and I hadn’t packed on any weight. Yet. I never even opened the package.Fast forward a few months. I had a wedding to attend and I’d added a few 10 pounds of Mommy weight. Oh, if only it had stopped there. But I digress. I dug through my drawer and found the Spanx because something needed to address the lumps.
I pulled them out of the package and examined them. First of all, I apparently bought the kind that start just under the boobs and end a few inches above the knees. Basically, they were like a big body condom.
I tried to unfold them. Except that I had apparently already unfolded them. I wondered how I was supposed to stretch over my butt something that may or may not stretch over the butt of a small, underweight child. I double checked the size on the front of the package, flipped the box over and sure enough, I fell on the left end of the “B” range. Thinking that someone must have made a mistake and put the wrong pair in the correct package, I stuck my hand into the ten inch opening that was the waistband, located the tag and verified the size. It matched up. Typo? Wishful thinking. I sat down on the bed and went to town.
FIFTEEN minutes later, I was panting like a dog. I had broken out in a cold sweat. I thought I might lose consciousness for a brief moment. I took a drink of water. I laid my head on the pillow. All that work and the darn things were wriggled up to knee level. They had rolled all up at that point, so my knees were bound together by a horrifying black S&M looking torture device called Spanx. What kind of crazy person thought she was doing women a favor with these things?
But I was determined.
I rested for a moment, then stood back up and went at it. A few minutes later, those bad boys were just below my butt. Now, they were still all rolled at the top, so they were stretched smoothly from the knees up to just below my butt, where the rest of the fabric was rolled into what looked like a rubber band that was about to snap.
I’m like JLo minus the hot body, people. We are talking a copious amount of booty flowing over the top of those things. At that moment, I heard my husband coming down the hall. And all I could think was, “Oh, please God, don’t let him walk in here.” I have no shame — I’m more than willing to show him my second and third glow-in-the-dark, stretchmark covered, cellulite dimpled behind, but I knew that I would never hear the end of that one. The thought fully motivated me to go for one final heave ho, wherein I yanked those things up.
At that point, they were on all the way — black Spanx from just under my boobs to just above my knees. I looked like I was shoved into a sausage casing. I could barely breathe. I was more than committed to going to the wedding lumpy because there was no way I was going to wear them. I mean, it would be difficult enough to go to the bathroom after a few cocktails, but the real horror would be pulling them back up.
Despite my decision that the Spanx would not be attending the wedding with me, I figured I might as well see if they did their job. I was going to try on a dress. I needed one last adjustment because there was a good three inch gap between the Spanx crotch and, well, my crotch. So I reached down for one final pull and WHOOPS. I ran into my girly parts. Not girly parts through the Spanx. Oh no, just girly parts.
I was mortified that I had managed to rip a HUGE hole in the crotch, large enough for my entire hand to slip through, during my now-25 minute ordeal. I walked my sausage-encased, Spanx-clad body to the full length mirror, did my best to hike a leg up and I took a look.
And you know what I found? An INTENTIONAL hole in my Spanx. A full-on split in the cotton crotch. Given the way I think, I immediately assumed that the manufacturers of Spanx somehow erroneously believe that: (1) A woman is capable of engaging in the sort of activity that crotchless Spanx would allow when she cannot breath and is all wrapped up like a Lil Smokie; (2) A woman’s partner would find her even remotely appealing so that he would actually have an interest in engaging in the sort of activity that crotchless Spanx would allow when she is all wrapped up like a Lil Smokie; and (3) A woman would have so little shame that she herself would want to engage in said activity while wrapped up like a Lil Smokie.
So I went and grabbed the box for a second time. What I found upset me even more than my original thought. It turns out the “hole” is what I like to call a breakaway crotch — so that you can pee through it. Yeah, ’cause that’s a good idea. I’m going to hike up my semi-formal dress, squat over the toilet in my heels and pee through the Spanx crotch hole. After a few cocktails.
My little morning dress up foray ended with me getting a pair of scissors and cutting off my Spanx. Good use of $48, right?
Isn’t there some saying about learning lessons? I don’t recall what it is. Obviously. Because I tried again, almost three years later. I’m going to Vegas and I’ve now added another ten pounds to that first ten pounds. Lumpy doesn’t cover it. Muscle tone is a distant memory and that size 4 has doubled. I kind of hate the old me that bought the original pair of Spanx in the first place.
So I bought another pair of Spanx — one size larger than the last pair because, you know, ten pounds. I was very careful not to buy a porn pair of Spanx again. I will save you a second gory story, but my take home message is that Spanx do work — they take the lumps away — but getting them on and off? Well, I’d rather just drink until I forget about my lumps.
Laura Willard is a freelance writer, contributing editor and blogger. She also keeps a personal blog, A(n) (un)Common Family, where she rambles about daily life, parenting, adoption issues and the random nonsense that pops into her head. Find her on Twitter @Laura_Willard.