Living Large, or Extra Large

So, last night I mentioned that I should shave for MK's night out. Which I did. Then I found out I needed to wear something fancy. Fancy? All my fancy clothes are at least 2 sizes too small. Depressing.
So, I pull out the Spanx. Spoiler alert: if you don't want to know about my undergarments or about women's undergarment secrets in general, you don't want to continue.
Actually, this fine piece of equipment is MORE than Spanx. This is industrial strength Lycra with reinforced seams. This is a girdle that could contain Marlon Brando. This is probably the kind of armour that soldiers in Iraq are wishing their Humvees had. This is SERIOUS. My undergarment of choice under fancy clothes is the last thing I want any one to see. If I'm going someplace fancy and think I might get some wink-wink, this is NOT the undergarment I wear. This is the antidote to wink-wink. I need to call firefighters with the jaws of life to get me out of it. This makes Mormon underclothing look like Victoria's Secret. This is Victoria's Ugly Evil Stepsister's Secret.
OK. Bra-girdle-leg fat sucker inners all-in one. That is what this is. It's like a unitard from knee to boob and it is TIGHT. Putting it on is hideous. Getting it off is worse. The designers foresaw this difficulty, and it has a snap-crotch in case you have to pee. (I have never used it, it creeps me out). It is something my granny would have been embarrassed to wear.
But, last night, I was reinforcing to MK how special she is that in fact, I would pull this bad boy out and wrestle it on. I wanted to look nice. And that sound you heard at 10, followed by the seismic waves? That was me taking it off, and all the rolled-up, pent up rolls hitting the ground and exhaling.
And yet. And yet, I am so unhappy with my body, that I can't even identify which part I would change first in some magical Oprah episode where she buys me a new body. I am considering signing up for experimental French surgery where they attach my head to a new face, body and hair. I am like Brittany Spears 6 months after the head shaving. All round and soft, and confused looking. I am in need of discipline.
I blame my babysitter. Her school participated in a fundraiser for a trip. She was selling cookie dough and cheesecake. I bought a 3 pound tub of dough and a cheesecake.
The cheesecake is still mercifully intact. (It is too frozen to damage). The dough is a sad, sad tale. It is gone, now. And not a single cookie was baked. I destroyed that dough spoonful by sinful spoonful. In fact, I left some in the bottom and M asked me if I wanted to put it away in the fridge, and I said, "no." He asked if it would go bad. "I hope so. Then I won't eat it. Probably."
What was I supposed to do? Deny the talented girl and her music ensemble a trip to London?
So, the dough has mutated. It didn't really get digested, it just morphed into my skin and butt. And then I crammed, stuffed, and finagled it into the undergarment last night to look decent.
But I didn't feel beautiful like I used to when I get dressed up. I felt wedged in, not feathery. I felt like the pounds-per-square-inch on my heels would be enough to kill a grown man were he to be accidentally under my foot. I felt, in short, like a rhino with lipstick. It's not a pretty self image.
And yet...where is my self control? Where is my motivation to exercise? Where are my non-elasticized pants? I have stuffed these things into their own super tight storage. Where I deny their necessity. I deny the now tightness of my formerly loose jeans. I deny the accuracy of the dog scale I stepped on while no one was looking today at the vet. (Do you think it's possible that jeans, a sweatshirt and shoes weigh 30 pounds?)
Denial is a powerful thing. Fortunately, so is my undergarment.
But it's not quite strong enough.