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          I nearly lost my life getting into a pair of Spanx the other day. It’s true. I’d like to say it was a solitary trauma, but unfortunately there was a rematch during the removal process that I just can’t go into. As I laid there on my bed, trying to catch my breath and hold onto consciousness, I thought to myself,

         I cannot be the only one who thinks this is the stupidest thing ever invented by anyone… Ever.

            Honest to God, try as I may, I cannot think of a more ridiculous garment ever invented. And before everyone jumps on the corset band-wagon, let’s take just a moment to realize that women who wore corsets had an instant boob lift and tummy tuck, all in one piece of underwear. Yes, I recognize that they also had bruised/broken ribs and that they couldn’t eat or breathe, but there was a definite visual benefit to be had when wearing a corset.

            Now let’s look at Spanx. Even the word itself is moronic. I envision the makers of Spanx (all men, of course) sitting in their office, chairs arranged in a circle with a pair of the silly things on a table in the center of the group. All the men staring and staring until one particularly doofy gentleman called out, “Spanx! We’ll name them Spanx!” The other men spitting coffee out of their noses as they place bets on how many women would actually purchase something named


            Well, as it turns out, the doofy gentleman won the bet. Not only does every woman from here to Timbuktu own a pair, but we actually risk life and limb to wear something that sounds like a dominatrix tool. Unlike the corset-wearers of old, with their defined waists and ample bosoms,  Spanx-wearers end up looking like overstuffed, vertical uni-boobs from knee to neck. (I can hear the skinny girls now. All the Trish’s and the Bambi’s and the Lexi’s of the world are tweeting each other  selfies as we speak – displaying their perfect measurements and contemplating whether or not pants come in sizes smaller than 0….. P.S. Bambi, they don’t.)

However, for the rest of the ladies (the normal sized ladies on up), this is probably what you’re feeling after you’ve wrestled yourself into a pair of these suckers.

            And this is on a good day. Congratulations, you look like a stuffed sausage.

            And do we know why this is? Because when we look at ourselves in the mirror and see rolls of flab given to us by babies and too many nachos, we think to ourselves,

I wonder if there’s some kind of crazy contraption that will squish all of my insides into a long tube so that I can zip my pants instead of having to use a hair tie to secure them??

(Women who don’t understand that last comment can keep on moving ‘cause they just don’t even know how real the struggle is.) Then, not only do we actually purchase (with real, hard-earned money) a pair of these “miracle” undies, but we do a jig that can only be likened to the rain dance of the fat people as we try to get into them. We squirm, jump, suck in, pull up, tuck in, lay down, and twist ourselves into a sweaty mess, made even sweatier by the oh-so-breathable Spanx material.

            Again, the men sitting in a circle around the Spanx, calling out material options willy-nilly. “Syran wrap,” one says. “Fleece,” says another. Finally, Mr. Doofy comes to the rescue. “I know!! Nylon! Ha, these women will be so drenched after just one hour in their Spanx that they’ll lose 10 pounds and have to buy a smaller size! Ca-ching!!”

            And it’s not enough that you finally manage to get yourself into the crazy things. No, that’s just when the depression kicks in. Because, whereas you once had vivid dreams of magically turning into Marilyn Monroe when you finally weaseled your way into your garment, you now realize that you look more like this.

Great. Now your butt has moved to your upper back, and I’m guessing that your thighs have moved to your knees. Why? Because Spanx won’t make us skinny, ladies!!! They just move our fat to NEW LOCATIONS! So you can button your favorite pair of jeans, only now you need to wear a bra on your shoulder blades and go up at least two shirt sizes. Problem. Solved.

If you’re crazy enough to leave the house like this (and don’t worry, we’ve all been this crazy once or twice in our lives…. No judgment here), you’re probably wearing your nice jeans (with the hem let out to allow for your newly acquired double knees), big shirt, and two bras so that you can sweat your butt off as you paint the town red. What’s that, you say? Feeling dizzy are you? Oh, that’s just your organs encroaching on your lungs, slowly collapsing them with each inhale you take. You’ll be fine. You’ve got another three hours at least before you’ll need medical attention. Oh wait, what’s that now? You have to pee?

Once you’re finally back home, dehydrated and in need of an aspirator, you can finally get those dang Spanx off! Or can you? Because short of the Jaws of Life, those puppies aren’t coming off without taking some flesh with them. But at that point, you won’t even care. You just need to pee and breathe and eat and take your back-bra off, for the love of Moses!

So, you do what every panicked woman does in a moment like this. You reach for the scissors and literally cut yourself out of the precious Spanx that you’d dreamed would change your life.

But they did, didn’t they? You are walking away from this experience wiser thanyou once were. You are more accepting of your body. You are more willing to reconsider your exercise plan that perhaps was growing dusty next to the ab-roller you’d purchased that night you housed the entire gallon of ice cream before realizing it was gone. You do this so you never, ever have to go through the disillusionment of  Spanx again.


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