Adventures in Shapewear

Ah, shapewear. How long I’ve avoided you. Oh, it’s true I’ve toyed with idea of buying you a time or two. It probably would have helped if I had gone through with my purchase before the dreadful wedding guest dress disaster of ’07, where I broke the zipper on my bestest guest dress minutes before we were supposed to leave…and got stuck in said dress requiring my mom, aunt, AND cousin’s assistance in freeing myself from my own prison of shame. Then again, you probably wouldn’t have saved me in the end because I knew I was taking a risk in not bringing a back-up dress, but I figured if I just wished hard enough, the dress would still fit. I’m afraid I was a hopeless case.

So what happened that led me to make the big purchase? Alaska, that’s what. There’s just something about being in the biggest state that makes you want to grow. It’s totally out of one’s control—what with all the free cookies. I know my argument may falter when you find out that I managed to pack on another five pounds while at home in Oklahoma for the past two weeks, but I still blame Alaska.

I blame Alaska in the same way that I blame Mexico. It had nothing to do with my own personal lack of self-control that I ended up immortalized in film (on someone else’s camera) dancing around a bar in a wig (that was not mine) and ended my Mexican adventure sitting alone at table on the sidewalk, holding hands with a stuffed orangutan before I was shoved into a cab and somehow delivered back to my room on the cruise ship where I would occasionally wake up yelling about the sweater I lost in Mexico (and is probably currently being worn by my orangutan friend). We’ve all had those experiences in Mexico. My cousin told me so…of course, most of us weren’t in our 30’s when we had those experiences… I also blame Mexico for the trail of destruction I discovered at 6 o’clock in the morning after I crashed a company holiday party a couple weeks ago (of which, I came out as a star—those [insert company name here] people loved me, which makes me think my antics were witnessed by no one…thankfully). I’m still not exactly sure what happened, but I need to study the layout of my apartment (and perhaps add some directional signs), so I don’t confuse the entranceway with the porcelain god. (I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure I decided that 10 feet was close enough. What my subletters don’t know won’t hurt them.)

So as you can see, I am merely a pawn in this miserable game. Left to my own devices, I’d be a supermodel with a pristine living space. Unfortunately, Alaska and Mexico are forcing my hand. And that’s why I bought the shapewear.

What exactly put me over the edge on buying the shapewear? Well, it was the mere fact that my jeans didn’t fit. Back in April, I bought two of the most expensive jeans I’ve ever purchased under the stipulation that I could not gain weight, so they would fit for eternity. Unfortunately, Alaska did her damage. So, upon my return (just before going to Japan and that fateful cruise to Mexico), I decided to take matters into my own hands and find a temporary solution to the muffin-top debacle. That solution? Shapewear.

Did I wear it in Japan? No. Did I wear it on the cruise? No.

The first time I wore it was almost two months later. I was leading a private wine tour for my friend’s company, and I thought, “Hey! I should try this out.” In the morning, I put on the cinching undergarment and was impressed by how much better my clothes hung on me. I went about the morning, feeling fan-freakin-tastic. Then, as the day wore on, I started to feel self-conscious that my sweater might ride up (or my jeans ride down), and I wouldn’t know because I couldn’t feel it happen (due to the shapewear). And then…everyone would know. Yes, I do cause my own problems, thank you for noticing. The rest of the day found me constantly checking my shirt and pants. By the end of the day, the legs had rolled up, forming a tourniquet on my upper thigh. I thought I was going to have to amputate my leg. Once the tour was done, I jumped on MUNI, headed home, and adjusted the shapewear.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, and I’m thinking it too. Why would I just adjust the shapewear? Why not TAKE IT OFF? The answer is a simple one. Because that wouldn’t make for a good story…well, actually, at the time it was just my own laziness. Once I was at home, I had a couple hours to pack for a trip to the East coast, so I rushed around doing that and ran out of time to take the shower I planned on taking, which also led me to NOT take off the shapewear.

I wore that torture device on the plane—on the red-eye. I have NEVER been more uncomfortable. An hour into the 5 hour flight, I rolled it down, allowing my belly to breathe (though sacrificing my hips). As I slept, I think every part of my body swelled up, except what was bound in the shapewear. I awoke in Boston feeling awful. My first stop at the airport was the bathroom, where I slowly (because there was no fast-motion option for removing my jailor) pulled off the shapewear, and as I did, I felt the greatest relief. I stood in the stall for a good five minutes, reveling in my newfound freedom. Once I was clothed, I sashayed by the mirror and decided that I looked just fine without the shapewear that I had been wearing for 24 hours non-stop, and I went out into the world—a new, exhausted, muffin-topped woman.

And then I wore the shapewear again the night of the holiday party. It wasn’t so horrible that night (except that I decided to put control-top pantyhose on over them). Apparently, I did get fed up with them upon my return home. How do I know? Well, during my CSI SF investigation, I discovered them next to the sink in the kitchen. That’s right, I disrobe in ALL rooms. And, for the record, I haven’t worn them since.

So now that I’m returning to San Francisco with the knowledge that I am an unstoppable cookie and chip eater, what am I gonna do? Wear the shapewear? No. I’m going to Thailand. Surely THAT country won’t force my hand like Alaska and Mexico. Expect to see me on the TV with a public service announcement about how Thailand made me lose 15 pounds. Sure Jenny Craig couldn’t do it, but surely the mere thought of eating a Cambodian deep fried tarantula will help curb my appetite. I’m in last resort territory (next, of course, to doing something other than watching Hulu in bed all day long—but who wants to exercise and eat right when you can watch episodes of “The Greatest American Hero”?). It’s Thailand or bust, cuz that shapewear is so 2009.