Up to my neck in Spanx. Literally. I bought one of those camisole-thingy's to help with that post-menopausal roll around the middle that I thought for years was a leftover accumulation of fat from baby number four, but since he is twenty-six years old, I can't claim the baby weight lie anymore. Sigh. Therefore, I now readily admit that this roll (which seems to be permanent) is due to hormones. Let's face it, when you are just shy of 60 you can get away with blaming EVERYTHING on hormones. Unwanted weight. Creaky knees (even the replaced joints creak, go figure that.) Bad moods. General grumpiness. More bad moods. Zits on the chin. (You just thought you had problems when you were 14). Uneven skin tone (that's the nice way of saying DAMAGED SKIN.) Road rage. (That's a relatively new one that's come over me lately.) Keeping your house at near arctic temperatures. Hormones. Like I said. Not pretty, huh.
Back to the story. Not too long ago, I strolled into our city's relatively new
Nordstrom acting like I had every right to be there. For starters let me just say what a brazen move that is for a woman who religiously shops at
TJ Maxx and who purchased her favorite jacket at
Wal-Mart. Gasp. Yes, Wal-Mart.
So I am headed to Nordstrom with a plan. Of course, I had made several reconnaissance trips to ensure that I would not make a complete idiot of myself. All of my friends who are in the know about things like Nordstrom had told me that their undergarment department was the best in the world. A slight exaggeration, to be sure, but they got their point across. So off to Nordstrom I went. To the undergarment department.
I have to stop here and warn any males completely off this post, if they are somehow still with me. I figured the "blame it on the hormones" diatribe eliminated most of them, but I want the others to click away from this post IMMEDIATELY... You are getting ready to find out why: I HATE BRAS. I cannot believe that as an 11-year-old-girl, I actually begged my mother to get me a training bra. What insanity. It's been downhill with the bra ever since. As a matter of fact, I don't believe I have ever met a bra that I liked. Oh, I have liked them in the dressing room alright, but get them home and the dark side of the bra starts to manifest itself. Bras are instruments of torture in my book. If I had in my possession all of the money I have spent buying ill-fitting or uncomfortable bras, I could probably have waltzed into Nordstrom and sashayed my fanny into any department of my choice and plunked down pretty good bit of cash for whatever my heart desired. But that wasn't happening. No doubt about it, I readily admit that I have been a bra wastrel.
Not too long ago, I actually cleaned out my "I hate these" bra drawer. I don't know if you have one, but I keep hanging on to the darn things. If the underwire pinched me the last time I wore it, I don't know why I feel compelled to believe that it will miraculously be different the next time I wear it. I think I hate admitting defeat. However, I was down to two wearable bras. Wash one, wear one. That's a lot of wear on garments that have to be worn 365 days a year. Ugh. I was getting desperate, and the bras were getting very shabby, so I decided to take my friends' advice.
Thankfully there are no snobs in the lingerie department. I guess that they have seen it all. Literally. However, the nicest lady waited on me. She talked me through the entire process, and I actually walked out of there with three bras in tow, a slenderizing tank top, and a
Spanx-like camisole. I don't know what came over me. Deep down I knew I should have just stuck with the bras. But that's what Nordstrom does to you. Your brain goes out the window when you enter that place. It's a ploy. They sell you the bra, then they sell you something to cover up the bra. My nice sales associate even tried to talk me into going over to the dress department to give my new bra a whirl, but I wasn't buying it. I headed out of there as fast as I could because when she rang up the total of my items, I was thinking I might have to return one of my grandchildren to pay for the items. Yikes.
I am still wearing the bras from Nordstrom. I am not wearing the slenderizing tank top much at all. It does not work. I still look like I need to lose about 30 pounds. But the camisole thingy, and I have had a come to Jesus and a definite parting of the ways. Why? Because I very nearly humiliated The Husband as well as myself and a few clients from his work to boot. I learned the hard way that unless you are Jennifer Hudson or can afford a stylist, you are never safe in undergarments that can suddenly take on a life of their own. I wore my lovely
Spanx camisole to a bank function. At the time, it appeared to be a good idea. I put a nice Chico's tank top over it coupled with pair of linen pants and a long jacket. I also wore a chunky necklace. That turned out to be a good thing.
The Husband and I found ourselves seated at a table with the clients. Things were going well. I liked the people we were with and found it easy to converse with them. The meal was good. But I kept feeling a little claustrophobic. And hot. You know like around my neck. At first I attributed it to my age or the hormones. I drank some water and swallowed some ice. Then it occurred to me that it might be the necklace. As my temperature was rising, I ran through my mental checklist. I had pulled my camisole down when we first sat down at the table, but hadn't given it much of a thought since. However the hot and bothered feeling around my neck was rapidly developing into a thermal reaction of some sort. I was starting to feel that prickle of sweat around my hairline. Not a good sign. In addition, I had picked up a few odd looks from The Husband but unless he has his glasses on (he didn't), I know he doesn't see that well. Nonetheless, I am in dire straits.
I finally excuse myself and head down to the bathroom. The lights are dim in there, but I did glance over at myself before I head into the stall. I do not remember wearing a cream scarf with my outfit. Hmmmm. I also see that there is something bunched up around my chest. Minimizing this area of my body (along with every other area) is the name of the game at my age. I most definitely do not want anything to push up or add bulk of any type to the sisters. I am always trying to tone them down because they seem to have minds of their own. Oh no. I put my on glasses and peer more closely into the mirror. My feeling of claustrophobia is now accompanied by a rising tide of panic. These are important clients with whom we are having dinner, and I have what vaguely looks like a thick scarf around my neck and a few added pounds to my bustline. Great. I put my hand up under my waistband to adjust my camisole. Nothing is there. Oh yeah. That camisole is what is hanging out around my neck. It has somehow migrated north, and it is a bunched up mess of a thing adding unwanted extra inches and bulkiness to my chest. Just what I need. I am sure the clients are duly impressed. So what's a girl to do?
Any rational person might simply pull that camisole thingy down and tuck it securely into the waistband of her pants. But you know by now that I am not entirely rational at this point. No way... I rip that sucker off my neck and chest like it is a leech and throw it with force into the bathroom waste basket. Slam dunk. I immediately feel better. But now the roll around my middle is once again more prominent. I absolutely do not care.
I don't even want to know what the janitor thought the next day. He likely wouldn't recognize a Nordstrom label if he saw one, anyway. I did feel a pang later when I thought about the money I had spent on that instrument of torture, but I quickly waved it off. I don't know what the clients thought about my wardrobe adjustment. I was breathing heavily when I returned to the table, but the gleam of victory in my eye prevented any further discussion. Even The Husband knows better than to mess with me when I look like that. It was a knockout punch in my book. Spanx was down for the count. Never ever again. Can I get an amen? Never ever again. I may wiggle and I may jiggle, but there are no more Spanx of any variety in my future. Sorry Nordstrom. I mean what I say.
