From my early twenties till the end of that interesting decade, I wore a girdle almost every day. The main reason why: I didn’t (and don’t) have a flat stomach. That said, I felt an almost compulsive need to contain it, smooth it out, hide it, etc. I was ashamed of my fleshy, weird -looking stomach and wanted to change that. Certainly not the belly love I heartily enjoy these days. So I purchased a girdle one day and began my intriguing journey with that particular undergarment. What can I say? In the beginning, it was nice looking in the mirror and seeing that smooth mid-section. Sure, at the end of the day, I had indentations in my skin, but did that really matter? Not really. I was content. Things came to a head when I went on a trip to Savannah, GA, with some friends and my brother. One morning, I was convinced that the Spanx I wore underneath my outfit was slowly killing me. I couldn’t breathe. I had to hold on to my friend for support as the girdle steadily attempted to steal my oxygen. It was squeezing the life out of me. At the end of the day, I pulled that mess off and stared at it with all the contempt I could muster. The beginning of the end.
By 30, I was done with my stretchy master. Can I just say that everything changed in my life at 30? Everything. What I wanted for myself, how I felt about myself, everything. Swimming in a Decade of Epiphanies. It’s kind of indescribable. Anyway, short of throwing on some stretchy shorts underneath my bridesmaids gown for cousin’s lovely wedding last year, I stay away from anything resembling shapewear. I want my belly to breathe, to dance when she wants to, to love handle if she wants to, whatever she wants. I don’t care about looking smooth. If you love your shapewear, good for you. I applaud your love. I just can’t do it anymore, Captain.
Brought to you by deep, unencumbered sighs of relief.