If you promise not to laugh I'll share with you what happened to me last weekend. Oh, I'm not repeating the part about Mooning Amtrak and having my ass filmed for network news. For some reason I find the mooning experience only slightly embarrassing. I'm actually pretty proud of having participated. I suppose that says a lot about me, doesn't it?
I had a very busy weekend.
There are 1,000 writers converging on Chicago in less than a week and a half and many of them have been busy writing about the upcoming conference. They're discussing what they'll wear, which of the bazillion parties they plan on attending and blah, blah, blah. I've been in denial about the whole thing because a) I'm not at all girly and b) I don't have the vaguest idea as to what I'm supposed to do, or wear, at this conference. I'll be the clueless one wandering the halls inappropriately dressed at all times.
Last Friday, a writer friend emailed to tell me that a few famous celebrities will be attending the conference including Tim Gunn from Project Runway. I never watch TV, but I was quickly informed he is a fashion expert and critic and that he *might* (rumor!) be picking out the worst dressed person at the conference for a public
humiliation makeover. Because I'm already insecure about being in the midst of famous, bestselling writers, my stomach immediately knotted up at the thought of being THE ONE Tim Gunn picks.
Make no mistake, if Tim Gunn is going to pick someone to humiliate for having no fashion sense it is bound to be me.
[For the record, my friend might be playing a joke on me about Mr. Gunn doing a makeover. I honestly have no idea, but I do know Tim Gunn is scheduled to be at the conference.]
I decided to make a quick trip to the mall and buy a dress. I hate dresses. I only wear sundresses hastily thrown over my bathing suit. I'm not the type of woman who wears real dresses. I tried on four hundred dresses at least, and didn't like any of them. Nonetheless, I bought a black dress. Black is versatile. I can always wear it out again and/or to a funeral someday. It's not a sexy, clingy, black dress. It's just a basic black dress.
Except there was a problem. I looked in the threeway mirror in the dressing room. I'm in my forties and my ass is dragging on the ground behind me by a few yards. Damn gravity! Who discovered gravity? I think it was Sir Isaac Newton? I know it was a man for sure. Women would have left it undiscovered. In any case, I thought my black dress would look better if my ass was above my knees instead of below my ankles.
After I paid for the dress I went directly to the lingerie department and frantically explained to the salesperson my need for my ass to be lifted immediately. She laughed. I don't think she's been through proper sales training because a salesperson shouldn't laugh at a customer with a serious problem such as Ass-Fall-Downism. She then informed me I just needed some "Spanx."
Excuse me? Who needs to spank me? And is he hot?
Apparently I'm the only woman on earth not wearing a product called Spanx. (This post is in no way sponsored by Spanx.) The salesperson showed me row after row of Spanx "shapewear." Shapewear can be worn under shorts, jeans, dresses – it comes in a lot of different styles. I've never owned a single piece of shapewear. Maybe you can tell by looking at me? The salesperson asked a few questions about my new dress and handed me a pair to try on.
Soon I was in the dressing room with nothing but a bra on. I turned the Spanx this way and that before attempting to put it on. (I don't know what this particular Spanx product is called.) It looked like a pair of shorts.
I pulled. I tugged. I sucked in my thighs only to discover my thighs don't get any smaller when I hold my breath. I slowly, painstakingly, inched the Spanx, up and onto my body. Those Spanx products? They're extremely tight, to put it mildly.
Suddenly I gasped!
I cried out in shock and dismay.
I had ripped the crotch right out of the brand new (and expensive!) pair of Spanx. I clearly am too fat for even the Fat Fighter product. I started stumbling around the dressing room trying to examine the hole in my crotch. Yes, picture me mostly naked, bending over and trying to get my own face eye level with my crotch. Suddenly I caught a glimpse in the mirror of myself twisted like a pretzel.
I stood up. I removed the Spanx. I examined the hole in the crotch. (It was much easier to see that way.) I realized the hole is supposed to be there. Clearly the Spanx people know their product is too difficult to remove for a quick romp and so they've made an easy access entry. Lift your dress, grab your partner, and have at it ladies! Those Spanx people are obviously intending for all of us to have a good time in our party dresses.
Two surprising things happened later that day. First, a reader on Twitter informed me the hole in the crotch is intended for peeing not sex. She said the Spanx products take so long to get on and off they are afraid you might wet yourself so the hole is *supposedly* to allow a woman to pee with her spanx on. (Not going to happen to my Spanx. I will not pee through a hole because what if I have crooked pee that day and they get wet?)
Crooked pee happens and you know it!
I'm sticking with my theory that the hole is for sex.
Second, I was out on an errand and a young (20's), thin, very attractive woman was walking by me in the parking lot. She had a sundress on and a gust of wind suddenly blew her dress up. She was wearing Spanx underneath it. I was shocked. Apparently, I really am the only woman on earth not wearing this stuff.
By the way, I bought the Spanx shorts with the hole in the crotch but I forgot to ever look in the three way mirror to see if they even improve my case of Ass-Fall-Downism. After all I've been through, all I can say is my ass better look damn fine in my new black party dress.
© Twenty Four At Heart