Hey there sucker!

Ahh, the holidays. The time for presents, home baked goods, parties, and girdles? Yes, girdles. Well, at least for me. This year I was forced to stuff myself into the horror of all things spandex and cotton, the contraption which makes young girls the world over shutter in terror but gives grandma a little sass in her step.

It all started out so simple. We drove to Walmart to buy some last minute things for my sister-in-law Ashley's wedding. All I wanted to buy were a few hair clips, maybe a bag of sour patch kids, and some index cards to study with when Mindy came over holding a black slip that claimed to slim and smooth. I realized that this was what I really needed to help me look good for the wedding, it was providential.

In an attempt to improve my looks, I'd already spent the better part of the week smelling like a peanut from my tanning lotion. Throughout the week people would enter the room I would be sitting in, sniff the air and ask who'd been eating peanuts. It was quite exhausting to explain that it wasn't a sandwich, but my skin that smelled like en elementary school lunch room. I knew that I could fix my hair, shave my legs, and paint my toes but the only thing that would help me to resemble the dancing girl on the hanger was if I bought that slip.

However, when I followed Mindy down to the aisle that sold the fat containing contraptions I saw something else that interested me. On the other side, the side that looked to be ransacked by desperate women who were returning home to family members who felt it their duty to comment on recent weight gain, or making one last attempt at finding love in 2007. On that shelf there were footless pantyhose that rested just below the bra line and came down slightly above the knees, or in other words there were girdles.

I had a dilemma. On the one hand I could stuff myself into a slip that was 14.88, or for half the price I could suck it up and buy myself a girdle, which would probably do the job better even though my pride would also be stuffed into it as well. Of course, in a fit of cosmic irony the sizes that remained were about a hundred smalls and two extra large, even though the box claimed I needed a Large. Grabbing the XL and the sexy black slip I trudged to the Walmart dressing room.

Removing my corduroys and sweatshirt I attempted to stretch the little black slip onto my body. The material stretched so slightly that I wondered if they had recycled used exercise bands. Catching, the material snapped back and nearly took out my eye. I must have been making a lot of noise because the attendant lady politely asked how I was doing. I wasn't sure what I should say.

I don't know if anyone else has had this happen when you are trying to put on a too small dress or shirt which requires contortionist skills, but I get cramps in my back or neck. So there I was half naked in a Walmart stall, partially paralyzed from a cramp, muttering under my breath and totally stuck with my arms above my head, pinned by my new black slip that would be coming home with me because it surely wasn't coming off. Would it be inappropriate, I wondered, to explain that I was suffering a neck cramp from trying to stretch it too much? Should I scream out, "Please, in here, climb under the door, bring the jaws of life and a slimfast!"

Instead, I replied, "Doing fine, thanks."

When I finally got it on I realized that what I really needed was not the "sexy" black slip which would have covered all my clubbing needs (if I clubbed), but instead the girdle. The tan, sheer, gut supporting, leg smoothing girdle. So I bought both, avoided eye contact with the cashier, controlled the urge to blame some fictional mother for the purchase and silently berated myself on the drive home.

Once at home I tried on my new piece of "lingerie", making the mistake of doing it in front of Jarom who was most likely scarred for life. The leg holes fit my calves comfortably, but after my knees things start looking bad. They continued to grow worse as I struggled to wrestle the stomach band over by butt and up to my bra, a task that should require an iron grip and a stick of butter. I can't even imagine what it would have been like if I'd bought the right size.

The box said tan spandex/cotton blend, but what was really inside was sausage casing. You know, the slightly opaque, slightly brown stuff where they force lumpy sausage chunks into a narrow confining tube. So yes, it smoothes the meat out, but it's sheer enough that no one is fooled about what is inside. In my case about 300 too many treats.

"I look like a salami." I say to Jarom, who's eyes are wide in what I am assuming is horror, but are carefully trying to adjust themselves to a smaller size.
"No you don't." He answers.
"Well, a sausage than." I mutter, thinking that at least that's a little smaller.
Jarom shakes his head but has the sense to remain silent, knowing that the conversation will continue like that for as long as he will answer me.

However, I must say that girdles do have their charms. Not only are they super sexy (this is said with sarcasm) but they do actually keep you sucked in if your in a jamb for a last minute fix. So much so that I was able to eat an extra piece of cake. Move over grandmas of the world, you got some new competition in the girdle aisle. At least for the moment. Tragically.