Thanks, but No Spanx

Have you ever tried to get into one of these things? I must have looked like a woman possessed by Satan. I lost my balance a couple of times, because the rubberized hem pinned my legs one behind the other, and then came the struggle to get the thing up and over my breasts, which you would think would have been easy, but I lacked the leverage. I took a break, caught my breath, brushed the hair out of my sweat-stung eyes and like those mothers who find the strength to lift the pick up truck off their baby, I got the damn thing up and over. Maybe my mistake was stepping into it and pulling instead of using gravity as my friend. I expect the security video to be posted on YouTube.

Okay. It was on. I was compressed. Walking up stairs would be an issue, but I’d manage. I got the dress out and slipped it on. I looked in the mirror. Yes, the fabric skimmed. Yes, the lumps and bumps were smoothed out. Yes, I could definitely go out in public, but . . . still. I had doubts. Maybe, after I lost a few pounds? Okay more than a few, several? I promised myself that next year . . . Valentine’s Day? I’d get into the dress. That was my plan, but just in case, I made the purchase. It’s in my closet, in the bag. The tags are still on it. I can’t bring myself to wear it. I simply can’t.