This One's for the Girls

I walked past a glass door today and noticed some pretty horrendous panty lines going on with my dress pants. In all honesty, I knew I should have put on some Spanx, but I just couldn’t bring myself to endure the torture. I’m just so over that.

I realize back in the old days women had to experience the wrath of girdles and other such female misery, but they also got to sip tea and eat crumpets and play piano for their friends (Yes, I have watched my share of Jane Austen-based movies). We have to walk around in an Arkansas pit of fire, sit through 8+ hours of work and be social, all while feeling like our thigh has been folded and stuffed into a jack-in-the-box. When work is over and the music is turned on, pop goes the weasel. My body resembles a gelatin mold that has finally been placed on the table. “Thank you,” it cries as it jiggles until it finds its stable, comfortable place of rest. Now I have reserved Spanx for special occasions and job interviews. When the interviewer asks me why I think I have what it takes, I’m tempted to say, “Because I’m sitting here with half my torso stuffed in a 5-inch square of stretchy fabric. Withstanding that should be proof of my resilience.”

I must admit that, on my break, I undid the button on my pants and just sat in my car in utter peacefulness. I swear dress pants were designed by men out to get us for the feminist movement: "Let's make them have to button 3 times, put an extra difficult one on the inside and then end it with two silver clasps. That'll show her!" I sat there and saw one of my male co-worker superiors. I prayed, "God, please don't let him see. Or walk over here and say something to me." I didn't want to make any sudden buttoning movements as to attract his attention. So I sat there like a shameless, bloated James Bond. Luckily, the coast was clear and I learned my lesson. Wear Spanx or tough it out like a big girl. 

And you can stick as many feathery wings on your models as you want, Victoria’s Secret, but a bra is a bra is a bra. Whether it’s $10 or $70, it has been causing bathroom adjustment trips since its creation. You know you’ve done it, ladies. The side-side, front-front, pat, pat, push up, go. Or those times that someone at work is talking to you and you can’t help but think, “How can I discreetly surpass this underwire and take care of that itch?" It's awful. And when the day is done and there's no one left to impress, you don't want anyone coming to that front door until you grab your robe. 

I once read "There is no such thing as ugly women; only lazy ones." And it makes me laugh. Because, sadly, it's kind of true. If I woke up at dawn, ironed my shirt, painted my Spanx on, and did a number of other things, I could probably be a knock out. But I just can't do it. I probably wouldn't have grooved with Victorian times either. "Ashton, where are your stockings and bonnet? And did you even put on your corset?" 

Um no. Pass the tea.