People, I’ve been preaching for a while that shape wear is a killer. I’ll give you that it’s not in the top 10 of killers but I think it at least makes the top 50. Do not doubt me on this because finally my empirical research has gotten some much-needed back up in the form of this article from the Huff Post.
If you were too lazy to click on the link, are suffering from painful finger callous buildup from numerous attempts to pull on and peel off your shape wear or bed ridden from damage due to excessive spanxing let me sum it up for you. Wearing shape wear will compress your internal organs, making you constipated, gassy, and heartburny to such an extent that an acid reflux waterfall to rival Niagara is created that dissolves your esophagus into a mushy throat puddle.
But wait there’s more – all that jamming, stuffing and squashing down causes extreme lycra urination syndrome or as those of you in the non scientific community call it, “Oops I’ve peed my pants.” And much worse in my book of public humiliations and shame, the tamping can truncate your bowels leading to a master class in self-crapping. Sure, you could wear an adult diaper to help you out but I’m thinking the extra bulk from the diaper would kind of cancel out the whole reason you’re Spanxing in the first place.
The deathblow comes when you bust a blood clot from all the excessive squeezing. This is why I swore off of Spanxing or really any shape wear even the Target brand (with coupon) three months ago. Because there’s a killer the article missed – Death by Spanx due to driving while trying to free yourself from the lycra coffin that you’ve encased your body in.
It was right after Halloween, so you know after liberally feasting on what probably amounted to thousands of snack and fun size candy bars I was in desperate need of some major league fat suppression thus my decision to initiate a full Spanx force field. I didn’t go nuclear which is Quadra Spanxing but I most definitely doubled Spanxed. Well more like two and half times, no make that tripled Spanxed if you count the patented tummy control tight end tights I was wearing.
I had shoved myself into a dress with it’s back zipper straining like a baby trying to get out of its mother’s body when she was only nine centimeters dilated and had awkwardly gotten into my car to drive to an event while trying to breathe only when absolutely necessary to maintain life support. As I’m driving I’m in a horrible mood because it feels like the Spanx is strangling me. I thought if I die right now my obit will read death by Spanx asphyxiation and then I thought the Spanx company really needs a freaking warning label on their products and that just maybe someone, perhaps me, should file a class action lawsuit. Then all that thinking about my imminent Spanx related death freaked me out which sent me into a sharp shame spiral descent about dying due to vanity.
The next thing you know I’m having a full-blown panic attack. I have to get the Spanx off like right now. I can’t wait another second. So, still driving at 65 miles per hour down the interstate I start ripping off my undergarments. I’m telling you it was one thing getting the tights off, not easy, but doable, especially if you let them rest at your ankles but getting off a Spanx Power Brief with one hand on the steering wheel and the other crotch adjacent trying to rip off that lycra infused, Satan sanctioned, nylon is a whole other story.
I heaved. I tugged. I cried. I prayed. I ripped. I swore. My fingers hurt from trying to pry the Spanx off and still the farthest I could get that damn thing was mid lady business territory. Finally, I pulled over. Which wasn’t easy because the tights resting at my ankles had become hitched on the brake pedal. So I had to use my other foot to toe the fabric off the brake so I could come to complete stop.
As soon as my car was in park I hitched up my dress to my chest so I wouldn’t have any obstacles in the way and just yanked with all the might the Good Lord had bestowed upon me and got that sucker down to my ankles. Then I laid down across both seats with the gear shifty thing stabbing me in the back and finally peeled off both my tights and the power brief.
I took some cleansing breathes, pulled down my dress, started up my car and got back on the highway. When I got up to 70 miles per hour I rolled down my window, checked my rearview mirror to make sure I had no cars behind me and gleefully tossed the power brief to the wind while screaming, “So long sucker!” This girl was done with living a lie. Beginning right at that moment I embraced a fib no more, free range, flab philosophy. I’m letting it all hang out and all I can ask is that more of you brave souls join me!
***For all things wonderfully Snarky go to www.snarkygear.com where you can find the new winter Snarky line of clothing and accessories. (Flannel Snarky P.J.’s anyone?) Plus, there’s my book – Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. (Click here for purchase information.) Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good. Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival. If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. To stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – http://is.gd/iEgnJ (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.
Snarky in the Suburbs 