Spanx For the Memories

Our moms called them girdles.

I remember as a teenager thinking how old-fashioned and futile they were. Of course that's what a size 7 thinks... and cannot fathom a time when she might need the help of Lycra to reign in her nether-regions.

A few years ago, a very savvy marketer came up with a new brand of girdle...and now we all call girdles the same thing: Spanx. The same way that any tissue is a Kleenex, any bandage is a Band-aid and, particularly if you're from the South, every carbonated sugary beverage is a Coke.

I'm wearing my Spanx right now, waiting on The Boy to get home and take me out to dinner. I have this tendency to pick a new outfit and wear it into the ground... and I've been sporting the new red WHBM turtleneck I got from my parents for Christmas with either jeans or a black mini for three days now. So tonight I did a little shuffle through closet to find something new to wear for our date night.

I landed on an INC long, fitted black sweater with a cowl neck and silver sequined pockets paired with black leggings and tall boots. I bought it when I was 20 pounds lighter back in the salad days (and I literally mean salad) of my post-divorce, singleton skinniness. I LOVE this sweater. It's short-sleeved, which works out well for my not-at-all-pre-menopausal-hot-naturedness, it shows off my curves and is just thick enough to hide any lumps while not being thick enough to add bulk.

A quick look in my full-length mirror (which is one of those magical jobs that makes you look scads thinner than you actually are-- a phenomenon of which I was blissfully unaware until one of my friends cruelly pointed it out to me) confirmed the need for body armor...or as we all now refer to it: Spanx. So I dug my flesh-colored scuba suit out of my undies drawer and struggled into it. I told myself that it was just the altitude that caused the struggle-associated breathlessness, but let's face it: When squeezing your Refrigerator Perry-like thighs into a girdle causes you to pant, it just might be time to step away from the Christmas fudge. And cheese. And crackers. And... oh hell, you know the drill.

In less than a week I'm headed to Houston for my bestie Jen's 40th birthday extravaganza. Jenapalooza? Jenfair? Jenstock? Because she runs in a broad social crowd that includes TLF (my first ex-husband, for the uninitiated-- AKA That Little Fucker), my intention had been to lose these 20 lbs prior to the party.

What is it they say about the best intentions?

Sigh, my refrigerator crisper is lined with now-liquified good intentions and all of the candid photos of me taken at D's parents' anniversary party earlier this month would indicate I've been substituting duck fat french fries for salad. Duck fat everything. In fact, judging by those photos, someone lined my beautiful emerald green velvet dress with duck fat.

Jerks.

Tomorrow night, two sweet friends (Coral and Tami) are coming over to give me a sanity check while I do a parade of the closet. It is imperative that, when faced with the miserable son of a bitch who told me I was"too fat to get pregnant" while we were discussing having our first child (ah, the romance!), the man who on occasion would remove my plate of food from me before I was finished eating (and in front of my friends), the absolute prize who cheated on me even after I was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy and told I had a 25% chance at ten more years of life-- it's IMPERATIVE that I feel good about the way I look if we have to be in the same room at the same time for the first time since I divorced his pathetic, almost legally-short ass, ten years ago.

God, how I wish I didn't care. But I am, after all, me.  And me has very little sense of self when it comes to my physical appearance. Yoda or no Yoda.

And The Boy can't go with me on this trip (he'll be stuck at home with a wolf pack of 6 dogs plus 2 cats, long story) so I have to face TLF and the poor, unsuspecting woman he married 10 months after our divorce all alone. In all of my sausage-like glory.

And still, FUCK him, I will look fabulous, right? Right?? Even though I'll be sashaying around with my hips tucked into a modern day version of the Iron Maiden. I always did look fabulous, you impotent midget. And shocker, I'll be the center of attention like I always was during the 13 years he tried to beat me down... once again reminding him of what he said to me during our divorce, that he was "tired of living in my shadow."

My shadow may be considerably larger than I'd like these days... But yeah, I hope he feels cold and small in it next weekend.

Small shouldn't be a stretch.