In preparation for my husband's annual work party tomorrow night, I went in search of a dress in a....ahem....slightly larger size than those hanging in my closet. This was not just the result of eating my own weight in Christmas cookies and homemade Chex Mix daily over the last few weeks, this was a perfect storm of sitting on the couch since November 2nd (growing back two broken bones in my wrist), along with the aforementioned cookies and Chex Mix. Add in pain, comfort food and disrupted sleep and before you can say Cast Off, you're up a size or two. It's not the end of the world: the path to health is not always a straight one, and this is just a little curve I encountered - one which added to MY curves.
I found a dress, but it needed some "internal support" in the form of a little item which sounds like "spanked." For those of you unfamiliar with this item, you are probably thin and should stop reading this and go eat something. As the rest of us know, this particular undergarment was invented by the same person who invented menstrual cramps, mammograms and natural childbirth; someone who felt that women "had not yet exceeded their pain tolerance level." Reluctantly, I selected from among the styles: Uncomfortable, Excruciating, Unbearable and Beauty Knows No Pain.
These garments do the trick: they smooth bulges and bumps into a under layer, using the same method used to produce diamonds, which allows you to wear a dress that is a size too small. Your stomach is so hard you are tempted to taunt everyone like your uber fit Uncle Leo used to: Go ahead. Punch my stomach. I dare you. Future models will allow you to breath, eat, laugh more than a small chuckle or go to the bathroom, but these features are not currently available.
They are difficult to get on. In the same way it's difficult to say, wrestle an angry crocodile or get a real person on a customer support line. Armed with this knowledge, I decided I'd better practice ahead of time. I read all the instructions on the tag: I stretched, hydrated, cleared all breakables within an 8 foot radius, closed but did not lock the door in case of ceased blood flow. I warned family members that no matter sounds emanated from my room, under no circumstances were they to come in.
The idea is to stuff the offending lumps and bumps into the contraption. This is difficult to do with both hands but nearly impossible with one. For the uninitiated, picture stuffing a sleeping bag into a small sack. Now picture stuffing a full size sleeping bag into Stuart Little's backpack, and you get the idea. There's a critical point at which you must hoist the nylon fabric over the widest part of your anatomy and it's a fight to the finish - the fabric threatens to retreat in a roll at the top of your legs, unsure of it's ability to expand, while your buttocks and/or tummy resist being encased, fearing death by smothering. You will be tempted to call out for help - don't! This will defeat the goal of looking sassy once the ordeal is over: the vision of blubber vs spandex will be seared in the mind of your assistant and no amount of therapy can erase the image. No, it's a lonely job but you must soldier on solo.
But I had a handicap. Could this be done with one hand? I wasn't sure. I've had challenging times in Occupational Therapy, some which brought tears to my eyes, but those seemed like trivialities compared to this. There was no retreating: the only way to go was up, and the distance from abdomen to above my waist seemed unattainable. I cheered myself on through clenched teeth: You....can....do.....this.....
Forty-five minutes later, dripping with sweat, I was in. I toweled off, tried on the dress and decided it was going to work. I hung the dress back up and realized something: there was no way I was going through this again anytime soon. I put on my bathrobe, put my hand in a bucket of ice, and settled in for 24 hours of shallow breathing, no food or liquid, no belly laughs. The dress must go on. And next time I'm stuck on the couch for 2 months, I'm eating nothing but celery....promise!
