Thursday, November 6, 2014

Girdles a.k.a. The 9th Level of Hell

Typically I am not a proponent of girdles.  Stuffing my body into a sweat-inducing hug from the devil himself is not my idea of a good time.  Unfortunately, vanity creates opportunity for poor choices.

Last weekend, I was thrilled to celebrate the wedding of a close friend of the family close family member.  Although I was looking forward to seeing so many familiar faces, I was afraid of judgment that would be cast on my now-chubby body.

So I bought a girdle.  Because I was in a panic and waited until the last possible minute to buy it, I wound up with a style I didn’t want in one size too small – but, hey, more suck-in power, right?

Putting that son-of-a-b^&@h on was like stuffing an entire container of raw Grand’s biscuits into a miniscule airless balloon.  Once the biscuits were stuffed into that ninth level of hell and appropriately adjusted, I shuffled into my dress and off we went.  Besides feeling like my insides were being slowly constricted, things were going well – until I sat down at our table.

The second I sat down, that girdle skirt rolled up my body with an unthinkable speed – much like that of a window shade in a Tom & Jerry cartoon.  Not knowing what the view from behind me could possibly look like, I took my chances of missing the beginning of the ceremony and ran to the bathroom.

Because I’m an idiot, I decided I would quickly use the restroom before the ceremony.  I realized my mistake as soon as the snapping crotch portions were lost in my cleavage and between my shoulder blades.  With one foot balanced on the toilet, and my entire torso upside down I finally reached both portions, snapped them in place, and pulled the Lycra back down over my thighs where it belonged.

I emerged from the stall, covered in sweat, praying that I still had time to get to my seat before the ceremony.  The ceremony and reception took place in a large open structure that was quite echo-y.  I simultaneously observed the open bathroom door and the beginning of the ceremony music – just as I placed my hands underneath the automatic hand dryer.  God forbid it had been a normal hand-dryer – no, this one was powered by a jet engine and was previously used as a tornado siren.

As I snuck out of the bathroom, which was almost directly behind the pulpit, several people shot me a stink-eye.  Everyone rose for the entrance of the beautiful bride, so I took the opportunity to sneak back to my seat, which was as far away as possible.  The short walk down the aisle for the bride created a situation where everyone sat down, just as I was giraffe speed-walking (I hate wearing heels and normal sized steps were not an option since my thighs were practically tied together) down the middle of two rows of tables.

As I sat down, breathless, next to Mr. B, he stifled a laugh and said, “I heard the hand dryer.

The moral of this story is to let your chub be free.  Be lumpy and bumpy and don’t let media standards dictate how and why you feel beautiful.  Because, although the evening was beautiful and I had a wonderful time with my family and watching Little K dance until his feet were sore, I did not have the luxury of peeing again until went home.

Girdle Hell
My sister and I with our families.
Little K was a dancing machine.
 
I love so much about this photo.  I love that my parents are still so in love.
I love that they dance with one another while wearing proud Grandparents' smiles.
I love that my sweet nephew is such a good big brother to my darling niece.
On the other hand, there is something extremely satisfying about releasing the beast at the end of the night and letting your fat (in Little K’s words) ka-splode into relief.

Because he's adorable.

Skip the girdle.  Wear yoga pants.  Thank you for keeping me In Good Company.





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