Last week I bought my first pair of Spanx . Two weeks ago I purchased a dress that looked fantastic on me in the dressing room (at a store that understands the correlation between good dressing room lighting and actual sales), but the same dress in my home lighting looked more, um, bagel-stomach-y than it did in the store. Bagel-stomach = when your belly button, and the fat surrounding it, are highlighted by the tightness of a garment, so that your belly resembles a doughy round with a hole in the middle. A bagel.
Quickly making my way to the Bras & Things area of Nordstrom’s, I found a sales lady and asked for help. Now, being in sales myself, I know that “I need help” is code for “I’m giving you permission to sell me things. Please do so.” This lingere woman didn’t seem to get that translation, and wandered me over to the Spanx section of the store, then looked at me like “Okay. We’re here. Now what?”
“Well, I bought a dress that clings to my belly too much, and I’d rather that area be smooth” and so my legs and my boobs will be the focus of attention.
“Okay.”
“Um. Okay. Well, I think I want one that doesn’t have the leg-things; I just want it for my stomach.” (You can get Spanx that cover every inch of your body, fyi)
“What do you have against the leg-things?”
What do I have against the leg things? Hm. Against them. Like I harbor secret anger and bloody emotion against spandex on my thighs.
“Nothing. I just don’t have any problem with my legs. They’re fine.”
“Even your outer thighs?”
And this is why I resisted the Spanx for so long. I like my body, most of it. I have great tits and crooked teeth and small hands and high cheekbones. Small wrists, nice legs. There are parts that could be stronger, firmer, smoother. But my body is my body, and it looks how it looks. I know in the uber feminist world, I should just accept the bagel-belly and strut out in the night, reclaiming sexiness for myself and my similarly stomached sisters. But I didn’t want my stomach to steal the thunder of the dress, damnit.
I do believe that each person decides what matters and what does not, to a certain extent. Staying on top of the latest literary trends does not matter to me. Recognizing porn stars and knowing what titles they’ve been in does. Having manicured hands: nope. Perfect red lipstic: yep. Accepting my body for what it is: very much. Wanting to look pretty in my new dress: almost as much.
Does it have to be mutually exclusive? Can I say “I love my body!” and at the same time “I’m gonna squish it up into this impossible to put on granny-panty so I look like I’m thinner than I really am!” Am I cheating by creating the look of being fit without actually being in shape?
If so, what about all the people who are naturally thin, who do nothing whatsoever to keep their tiny-sized body in tact, and still get to enjoy all the benifits that come with having a small waist and trim stomach? They didn’t have to put in the work. Why do I?
It’s a messy fight between feminism and fashion, body-acceptance and figure flattering, creating a new view of sexy and inhabiting the sexy widely accepted.
Last week I gave in and bought the Spanx. I squeezed my happy thighs and bagel belly into the “body shaper”, and let my body be shaped. My reasoning: Not every day needs to be a battle. Not every battle needs to be won right this second, and rocking my new dress does not automatically equal selling out.
Also? It’s weird to fell all sexy and seductive and then realize that impromptu sex cannot happen in the outfit you’re wearing because the underwear alone is gonna take you ten minutes to peel off.
And that, my dears, is all for now.
take care.
.jameson.
