Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Nine: Ma’am’s Super-hero Sausage costume…

I reckon that Spanx is supposed to be a middle-aged woman’s super-hero costume. We are intended, to think that like, Clark Kent, all we have to do is open our shirt to reveal an S but instead of representing SUPERMAN, SUPERWOMAN, it stands for SPANX. Honestly, the S really symbolizes SAUSAGE. Yes, if you have never experienced wearing a SPANX, all I can compare it to is the encasement on the outside of a sausage. But, the inside of the Sausage, what it’s holding in, is not for the faint of heart. Because of Covid restrictions here in DC, you cannot try on clothing. You must purchase it and then bring it home in the hope that it fits when you finally get to try it on. I have returned so many items as of late. I am literally on a first-name basis with every employee, on every shift, at our local TJ MAXX. I have taken back more items than Imelda Marcos had shoes. I lie to myself in the store mirror as I hold up medium-size cotton- summer pants. Sure my inner voice says: ” You can squeeze your Goodyear blimp size ass into these with the help of your sausage encasement.” Your secret weapon! So like the Village idiot and a smile as big, I head home with my purchase.

At my abode, it’s a whole different ball of wax. I am embroiled in a horror movie and, I am playing the first imbecile in the film to enter the dark cellar with a chopstick as my weapon of choice saying: “Hello?” to the serial killer who is lurking at the bottom of the stairs. Splayed out on my bed like a fish out of water, I flop, wiggle, squat, twist, ANY movement to roll the sausage suit and wrap and encase my wobbly bits. Like a scene from The Exorcist, I am the victim of this tragedy, and the only saving grace of this entire tragic scenario is that I am not under fluorescent lights. EXHAUSTED, SWEATY, PANTING, I have only gotten the sausage encasement over my thighs. The struggle is real!

I need assistance in this, but can I call on teenage son AKA One Too Many, who perhaps will be, scarred for life from this situation? Confused Husband doesn’t need to see the truth of what lies next to him at night. Let him have his RIDICULOUS fantasy that you are still that twenty-something with the twenty-six-inch waist. Darkness and no lights are our friends! In the light of day, you are Rita Hayworth.

Rita Hayworth used to say, “They go to bed with Gildathey wake up with me.” In my case, it’s: “Confused Husband goes to bed with a stick, and he wakes up with a sausage.” For a fleeting moment, I wonder if I had just purchased those compression-type pantyhose if it would have been easier? As I lay there in my depleted state, I truly, consider starting a business where you can rent a person to assist you in your Spanx dressing. Candidates must be visually impaired so; there is no embarrassment or awkwardness from the Sausage client. Candidates must also be EXTREMELY- strong, as a lot of brut force goes into capturing all of the loose bits and rolls, and compartmentalizing them. It is truly a task NOT for the weak, not for the queasy stomach.

As I lay dying from this encounter, I wonder aloud if trying to squeeze into these fun summer fashions is worth it? Perhaps, I should just start wearing Muumuus? But I give it that good old college try and wriggle and squiggle like a fat worm into my Spanx. I valiantly try to roll off of the bed in the hopes that when I am standing upright in a vertical position, all the fat will have shifted to its proper place.

The vision of horror reflected in the mirror is astounding! I am the Michelin Man or a Shar-Pei. It is a comedy of errors, a sight for sore eyes, a TRAVESTY… It is a stew of nonsense, a fashion faux pas, an abomination to fashion! I slip on the “Fun-frolic, summer fashions and hope for the best! I bravely open my eyes. Although I cannot breathe, I am astounded, at how smooth and roll-free I look! My back-fat has miraculously been -shifted to my boobs!

From lack of oxygen perhaps, my sight is fuzzy, but I look okay! I do a model walk around my room. It is quite a feat! I may be moving a little like Frankenstein because of the Spanx restriction, but it is worth it! I hum the Superman theme in my head(when he is about to rip off his shirt and reveal his Super-hero costume!) I hum the Wonder Woman theme and leap around as much as my encumbered state allows.

I have discovered my superpower! Albeit not sexy and visually enticing, it does the trick! My confidence grows! My strides are more purposeful and, I feel like I have a secret! I smile at the person in the mirror, ignoring the lack of blood flow and oxygen! Panic sets in! What if I am walking; and, say, get hit by a Fed Ex truck? They will most definitely have to cut me out of my Spanx! The horror of this reality occurring shakes me to my core! (Must Google: “Can I have a DNCS order(DO NOT CUT SPANX) like a DNR order?”)

I model walk into the living room and like Madonna told me way back when:

Strike a pose, strike a pose! Don’t just stand there, let’s get to it

Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it Vogue, vogue.”

I strike my pose and freeze, ignoring my labored breathing, waiting for Confused Husband to say something complimentary…

“Why are you breathing like Darth Vader?”…