Dresses, Spanx, and Crotchless Undergarments: My Wardrobe Malfunction

I used to dress fairly nicely for work, but over the past 10 years, I've slacked off a little. Okay, a lot. Denim capris, flip flops, and a school shirt have become my uniform. This is partly due to laziness, but largely due to the fact that nothing fits me anymore. But today I put on a dress. I have no idea what possessed me to do this.

Now this dress fit, but I was a little uncomfortable with the idea that the fabric would be hanging over my blobs of fat curves and I might not look my absolute best. 

Enter Spanx.

I pulled out a pair of Spanx (if anyone is unfamiliar, Spanx is a popular brand of industrial-strength shapewear. Think - girdle on steroids. The idea is this - you pull on the Spanx which tucks all your rolls into its nylon embrace, flattening lumps and bumps, lifting buttocks, and smoothing cellulite and other imperfections, giving you a nice, sleek silhouette. That's the idea.

So apparently I bought these particular Spanx a long time (and more importantly, a lot of pounds) ago. Spanx are supposed to be really tight; that's the nature of the beast. But these? Well, these were tight on a whole 'nother level. 

So this morning, full of all sorts of stupidity blind determination, I struggled to pull on the diabolical undergarment. You know how you start? You step in, grasp the fabric in each hand, and pull as hard as you can while doing some sort of ancient tribal fat-banishing dance. One foot forward, yank. Other foot forward. Pull. Step to the side. Wiggle your hips. Straighten up. Step left. Step right. Pull, pull, pull. Bend over, straighten up. Readjust your grip. Heave. Wiggle some more. Seriously, all those Tik Tok dances out there? Amateurs! Finally I give up and lie writhing on the bathroom floor.

via GIPHY

The fabric is slicing into my legs, cutting off my circulation, and no matter how hard I pull, I cannot seem to tug these things up over my hips. After a full minute, I consider giving up, but at this point I've gotten them far enough up that removing them would be just as much of a struggle as continuing to pull them on. I briefly consider the fact that I might have to call the paramedics if I lie there, the nylon cutting into my flesh, much longer. I wondered if 9-1-1 gets many girdle emergency calls. With my luck, it would be undeniably gorgeous guys who showed up to rescue me, the beached whale, squirming on the floor, nylon encased thighs with a wave of fat spilling over the top.

I stood up and gave it a Herculean tug. They finally started to meld to my body. And that's when I noticed the rip in the crotch. I had managed to tear the crotch right out of these things. I looked down, trying to ascertain just how bad the split was. Realization dawned on me as I stared at the garment. There was no rip after all. Oh, there was a big hole, to be certain, but the fabric was neatly seamed all around it. The hole was on purpose. They were crotchless. It made sense, given the ridiculous and time-consuming dance I'd had to do to put them on. I mean, who would be willing to go through that every time they needed to pee, right?

After a good five minutes of struggling, I finally managed to get them on. I was a veritable sausage in a prison-like nylon casing. I couldn't breathe and I was certain I'd need scissors (or the jaws of life) to remove them later, but for the moment, my dress draped so nicely over my nylon-encased hips, butt, and thighs that I put that thought to the back of my mind. I even put the fact that it was a little um, breezy down there out of my mind. The things we women endure for fashion!

So I get to work, and people are telling me, "Oh you look nice today," which I always interpret as, "You usually look like a hideous wildebeest. What a pleasant departure." A student looks at me and asks, "Why do you look so nice? Do you have a date?" Sadly no because the only people I meet are 12 years old. 

After first period, I have to pee. There is no conceivable way I'll be able to pull these things down, pee, and then repeat the whole process of stretching them up over my butt again in the less-than-4-minutes I have before my next class, but since they're crotchless, all I have to do is squat, pee, and go about my day without having to wrestle with these things time and time again. That's the general idea. Most people can appreciate this feature. Most people can take advantage of this feature. 

Then there's me.

It's really not that complicated! I mean, even a caveman, er, cavewoman can do it. But as I left the bathroom, I felt a little um, I felt like I maybe hadn't quite mastered the whole 'peeing through a hole' thing. Great. Did I pee on myself? I don't think so. It's probably just a stray drip. What now? Maybe I should just cut these things off. Oh wait, then I'll have to go commando for the rest of the day! Probably not the best idea. I know! I pulled a pad out of my purse before realizing I had nothing to stick it to. Hmmm, maybe I can stuff it up into the hole and just stick the very edges down in the front and back around the missing crotch. But that would leave a whole lot of exposed tape, and I know darn well that two steps out of the bathroom and the pad would become dislodged and end up sticking to my leg halfway down my thigh. Or worse, it would fall off with a plop as it hit the floor in the middle of my classroom. My classroom filled with middle schoolers. Then I'd have no choice but to fling myself off a bridge.

"Why am I such a spaz?" I grumbled to no one. I'll spare you the details of the rest of my day and just say - next week I will be back to wearing my denim capris and flip flops! As I left for the day, a coworker called, "You look nice. Your waist looks so small." For a moment, all common sense left my brain as I delighted in the compliment and toyed with the idea of wearing Spanx under all my clothing because - woo hoo, small waist! And this is why women do these stupid things!