No hardware for my softwear

Well, the Times’ Christmas party has come and gone and, as usual, was a lot of fun. For me, one of the most anticipated parts of the evening each year is waiting to see what everyone is going to wear.
Let’s face it, we all like to get fancy once in a while. It’s a boost to the ego when someone says “You look great!” and helps lift our holiday spirits out of the too-tight heels and non-expandable waistlines after all that dancing and eating.
But here’s what I learned about just how far I’ll go to look good.
In all honesty, I’ve never been totally thrilled with this figure of mine that I often refer to as something from Greek mythology (no, not Medusa, thank you very much).
I’m talking about the female figures depicted in the ancient Greek statues—a little too well-rounded for my liking. No Britney Spears abs or tight-butt Beyonce Knowles here.
However, I might—in a flash—give Janet Jackson a run for her money.
Anyhow, I had this notion early last week that perhaps I could use—just once—a non-conventional means to reshape my figure for the one time a year when I step out of jeans and into snazzy.
During a trip this past summer to visit my brother and sister-in-law, I purchased a “Body by Ganz” “38 D-cup” body-shaper—in black. Never tried on the little temptress, just bought it.
The Christmas party would be the perfect venue. A black cocktail dress with a little underground support.
The body-shaper had been hanging in the laundry room for some time, so when no one was home, I went in and closed the door. I’d slip on the shaper and shape up. Then I’d go shopping for a dress.
Ladies, don’t ever let your husbands watch as you attempt to put on one of these little numbers quaintly marketed as the answer to the “girdle-hurdle.”
If Peter had seen the contorted position I was in for at least five minutes, he’d have turned the other way, ran, and never looked back. I swear I had to dislocate both shoulders, ask both breasts to step aside, and defy a mysterious form of gravity as I tried to pull that thing over my Greek figure.
Then all of a sudden, it was over and presto, all my softwear was packed into the hardware like an hourglass. I waddled down the hallway and into my daughter’s bedroom and the full-length mirror.
I was a sight for sore eyes. Truly, a shape-shifter. Not bad. This outfit was going to be my new best friend. I could bend down, turn around, and give a belly laugh—and still have everything in its rightful place.
So what if it took a chisel and vice to put it on.
But taking it off was the kicker for me. That painful episode all but sewed up my desire to put my shape anywhere but roundly into a black pantsuit for the Christmas party.
Anyone standing within 20 feet of me would have suffered a black eye when off came the body-shaper in one big bang and flew like a slingshot as my womanhood decompressed.
I’ll admit the body-shaper was an eye-opener, though. It gave me a glimpse of the power of spandex—especially because my husband did get a look at me in the thing later that evening.
But I still put it on behind closed doors and removed it with the lights off.

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