Before I even begin, let me qualify this account by admitting my memories of it are a bit hazy given the amount of time the blood supply to my brain was cut off, but I digress........................
As I mentioned in a previous post, I managed to gain 70 pounds in a year, thanks in no small part to a tempermental thyroid and the onset of menopause, but mostly because of my two-fisted approach to midlife stress management: a fork in one hand, a cocktail in the other. On my rocket ride from a Size 8/10 to Size "Ate-Ten" (of everything), I orbited into the land of "plus-size fashion." Quicker than you can say "chili cheese fries," I watched my closet full of cute, fitted fashionable clothing morph into a pitiful home for the stretchy, roomy, mostly black, don't-touch-me-anywhere style of apparel designed by Omar The Tentmaker. I'm just saying that should my pregnant daughter-in-law have the need, she'll have plenty of fashion selection when her ninth month rolls around this fall..
Now, on my journey, I've relied heavily (total pun intended) on the waaaaay-too-forgiving, infinite stretchiness and camouflauging blackness of Chico's Traveler line of clothing to keep me clad a tad too comfortably as I traded up a new size about every two months. (It's easy to sail the river of "de-nile" when your outfit conveniently expands right along with you)! Fortunately, I have plenty of the collection's pieces since I travel so often for work. After all, this is the stuff you can wad into a ball, shove into your carry-on bag and survive a two-week trek to Europe - with room to spare.
I had continued along this clothing path until the inevitability of Wedding Season 2008 threw a serious monkey-wrench into my "style." When Firstborn Son married that March, it was David's Bridal to the rescue with their stunning array of sizes that climbed well into the high double-digits. From the moment the kids announced their engagement, I determined that I would not fall into the frumpy-schlumpy mother-of-the-groom trap. This mama wasn't putting on beige, no siree! I was totally thrilled with my choice of the burgundy, off-the-shoulder number that also allowed me the ultimate comfort of wearing regular underwear.
But, then came late June and with it, the ceremony that would unite the precious daughter of long-time family friends and her handsome betrothed. The afternoon hour selected for the nuptials, coupled with the fact that summers down here are hotter'n fourteen hells, precluded any thought of milking additional miles from the burgundy dress. So, I settled for an aqua, street-length, linen sheath that would have to do. It's somewhat straight design, however, wasn't the most forgiving to an ever-growing gut. And, I literally melted at the thought of wearing control-top pantyhose in late June.
What to do?
Why, count on Oprah - and Chico's - of course!
Everybody knows that Oprah put Chico's Urban slacks on the map when she famously renamed them the "butt jeans" on one of her "favorite things" shows. And, how better to make that butt look so fabulous, no matter the size? Why, a handy-dandy, featherweight little piece of under-armor (the real stuff - not to be confused with another clothing line of the same name) called SPANXX!
On my next foray through Chico-land, I picked up a pair of the Higher Power - the ones that extend from just below the boobs all the way to the knees. They guaranteed among other things to make the wearer look at least one-size smaller, all the while preventing "muffin top," that ugly spare-tire roll that squishes itself up and escapes over the nearest waistband. I took them home and tossed them into the lingerie drawer without another thought, never for once thinking I should've considered taking them on a test-drive before The Big Day.
Wedding week arrived and with it the frenzy of activity that accompanies welcoming and entertaining out-of-town guests. I was especially excited because Firstborn Son and his new bride had wrangled a rare weekend off work in order to come home for the festivities. Soon enough, The Big Day arrived and, at last, it was time to dress for the short ride to Nashville for the ceremony and reception.
The house was abuzz with four adults rushing around trying to get ready to get to the same place at the same time. As I sat at my dressing table, working on my make-up and pondering the definition of insanity ("doing the same thing over and over again and always expecting a different result"), Newly-Minted-Daughter-In-Law popped in several times, seeking comment on her choice of dress ("darling!"), her hairstyle ("precious!") or to poke through my jewelry drawer in search of perhaps a different pair of earrings. Having birthed and raised two sons, I was thoroughly enjoying this exchange. Finally confident that she was good to go, she headed downstairs while I headed to the lingerie drawer.
Anyone who has ever purchased a pair of Spanxx will agree that they are deceptively lightweight and airy feeling. Looking very much like an average pantyhose top, they offer no hint of the experience that awaits the novice wearer, i.e., the experience of actually getting into the stupid things. Can you say "contortionist?" I stepped into them and began pulling them up, panty-hose style, but when they reached the knees, we hit a snag. Make that a brick wall. They stopped. And when they stopped, they wrapped around each leg like a boa constrictor and began not-so-gently squeezing. That should've been my first red flag to stop the madness, but noooooo! I launched what would become a furious battle to beat - or at least tame - the bulge!
So, I pulled, and I pulled, trying to ignore the chain of stress-induced hot flashes my efforts triggered. (Most people don't know that I was born a natural red-head. In fact, my hair was so bright-orange at birth, my mother reportedly cried the first time she laid eyes on me (and boy-howdy is THAT another story!). While the red gradually turned into baby blonde and has dulled to the nondescript dishwater shade I sometimes wear today, the hard-headed determination ("stubbornness" is such an ugly word) inherent to most red-heads remains). When I finally coaxed them over my knees and half-way up my thighs, they locked up again, this time buckling my knees inward toward each other, making it virtually impossible to take a step in any direction. Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, I grabbed a handful of Spanxx in each hand and began the furious tug northward over the biggest hurdles yet, which would be my aforementioned massive derriere and gut. Summoning every ounce of strength I could muster, I gave a mighty yank, causing them to lurch and land mid-tummy before they stopped yet again.
That's when I started seeing brown spots and the room began spinning. (And, no, alcohol was not involved). As my vision began to dim and the faint roaring in my ears grew louder, all I could think about in that moment was how humiliated I would be for Newly-Minted-Daughter-In-Law to come running when she heard the loud thud (once the house stopped shaking, that is) and find her Newly-Minted-Mother-In-Law unconscious on the floor, half-naked and - as my BFF Cheryl's late daddy used to say about her mother taking off her girdle - "looking like a can of biscuits that had just popped open!"
Struggling to remain conscious, I bunny-hopped my lock-kneed self (triggering a tremor that registered on the Richter Scale) over to the bed and braced myself against it to at least cushion the fall, should it happen. After all, no way was I sitting down. Not yet, anyway. Determined that I wasn't about to have suffered through this trauma for nothing, I vowed to continue the fight, deciding that finesse, not force, was the key to victory. And, it was about fifteen minutes later, with all that flesh stuffed and uniformly distributed within that long, beige Iron Maiden prison, and dress on, zipping nicely, that I made the mistake of finally sitting down.
Anyone who knows me well can tell you I have no head for math or science, but I have heard of something called PSI - or pounds per square inch. The hour-long ride to Nashville - seated - gave me ample time to ponder just exactly how much pressure or PSI it takes to cause organ damage.
By the end of the evening, my mid-section emerged from the shock and began to fight back. Whether cocktails and dinner contributed to this, I have no idea. Or maybe the hours of unrelenting pressure had taken its toll on that mega-resistant fabric. Either way, the Spanxx had slightly loosened their death grip on me, enabling me to get home and get out of them (see can-of-biscuit reference above) and feel, once again, the rush of blood to my feet and my brain.
You know how they say that once you see the precious face of your newborn baby, you instantly forget the hours of hellatious, agonizing labor you just endured to give them life? I guess the same premise applies here, because it wasn't long after my first battle with Spanxx that I bellied up to the drawer for more punishment. This time, it was to stuff myself into a business suit for a VIP (Very Important Presentation) before a client group in another state. And, leaving nothing to chance, like a glutton for punishment (among other things), I even put on a pair of control top pantyhose OVER the Spanxx. Can you imagine the support I felt?
Even though all that panty-power compressed my bladder to the thinness of a Pringles potato chip, I ardently avoided contact with the Ladies Room all day long. What had been pulled up that morning was not about to come down for any reason if I could help it. (Good thing I don't suffer from pre-speech nerves). And my plan was working well, thank you very much. That is, until just before I was to go "on," I felt something flapping and looked down to see that one of my t-strap pumps had come unbuckled.
Ducking into the powder room, I attempted to lift my foot to the bench near the vanity hoping to quickly buckle my shoe and get back to the meeting. No such luck. So, I sat down, hoping to bend down to buckle my shoe and get back to the meeting. Not happenin! I crossed my leg (with great effort and not much success), hoping to reach over and down and never mind the weird backwards angle, buckle my shoe and get back to the meeting. Nuh-uh. Trying not to panic, I tried every trick imaginable with plenty of hot flashes and no success. Imagine my humiliation as I flagged down one of my colleagues to come to my rescue and sheepishly asked her to re-buckle my pump, claiming a bad back as my pitiful excuse for needing help.
She was gracious, I was spared, and lived to give another speech.
Later that night, in the trash can of a convenience store ladies room somewhere along I-24, went one tired pair of control-top pantyhose. And the Spanxx? I'm waaay too cheap to throw something that expensive in the trash, but they came off and came home and are living in total obscurity somewhere in the bottom of my lingerie drawer.
But I can proudly say, "I fought the Spanxx and I WON!"
