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To Spanks or not to SpanksPosted Friday, August 22, 2008, at 12:13 PM
I had a fancy shmancy event to attend recently and was feeling every bit of that extra 20 pounds that I need to walk off or no-carb off or no-sugar off or count points off. And the night before the event, on Oprah (the 10 p.m. version), the beloved Queen of talk was promoting items for women that were "quick fixes" to make them feel and look better (than what they really are, I suppose).
Well, madam Oprah was really hyped up about a certain item called "Spanks." I'd heard of Spanks, had talked about them with a few meno-friends, but had never really seen them or talked to anyone who actually wore them.
Basically, Spanks (for those who are unfamiliar) are a tube-like garment with two holes at the bottom through which one's legs are theoretically inserted, after which (again theoretically) they are pulled up to the waist and then further, until they end just under the bustline (which at my age could be anywhere from the neck to the knees…depends on the undergarment worn at the time)…Ah, but I digress.
SO, the morning of this event of which I speak, I was, of course, at the local W.A. Lamart (Super Center, no less) and there on the rack near the wireless lacy bras that any flat-chested would be proud to wear, were rows and rows of these wanna-be Spanks, W.A.Lamart versions. I think they were called something like, "Toners" or "Sweet Nothings"or something unreasonable like that.
They came in sizes from medium to XL, which I thought appropriate, since there would be no reason for someone who was truly small to need such a device. So, I very nonchalantly saundered over to the racks of Spanks wanna-bees, pretending not to be the least bit interested in such a thing, but all the while taking note of the sizes. And then, with visions of fitting into that size 10 suit in the closet, I ever-so-non-chalantly placed a LG (beige or perhaps "Wheat") fake Spanks in my cart, right between the box of wine and the Skinny Cows (chocolate and vanilla variety pack). I was on my way and feeling quite sassy, I might add.
I couldn't wait to get to the counter, although I was careful in choosing which one I selected. Didn't want to take the chance of standing in line and meeting up with a familiar face and people always look in your cart to see what you're up to. If you have charcoal there, they'll say, "Oh, gonna barbeque?" If you have baby clothes, they say, "Ah, going to a shower?" If you have chocolate chips, they come off with, "Oh, gone bake some cookies?" (Guess they don't know those things are good just as they are). Well, what does an acquaintance say when you have fake Spanks in the cart….maybe, "Ah, I see you're gonna try to hide that extra 20 pounds by stuffing 'em through that tube of fake Spanks, huh?"
And so, I strategically chose my aisle (not the self-checkout, at which I ALWAYS have to call for help) and with my fake Spanks, boxed wine and Skinny Cows in tow, quickly made a beeline for my Jeep. I only park in one of two side-by-side spots these days, and will circle the lot for hours until one of them is available, so I knew precisely where I was headed.
AH, home at last. Couldn't wait to try out the new miracle fabric drug. I was so excited, I nearly forgot to put the Skinny Cows in the freezer, lest I should be forced to scoop the running chocolate up and devour via spoon.
SO, the time had come. I was ready to transform this aging, sagging, meno physique into the slim and trim physiques I'd seen on the big screen (well, OK, the 25" screen).
I took the fake Spanks to the privacy of my bedroom and began this quest to magically eliminate 20 unwanted pounds.
It began with unwrapping the fakers and finding them to be not nearly as large as I. But then, I was about to be transformed, so what did it matter? I sized them up, holding them before me with each index finger and thumb as one does a still-wet fingerpainting. Only the fingerpainting seems to fit better.
Disrobed, I gingerly attempt to step into the right leg. I fall backwards. I try again. The hole is not big enough. It takes both hands to stretch the right leg hole big enough to get my foot and right cankle in. Ah, but at last, success. The same procedure follows for the left foot and cankle. So, I'm half way home. Now comes the real challenge; getting this Spanks faker past the knees, up to the waist (aptly named), and beyond.
I pull. I tug. I pull more and tug again. Five minutes later and sweating profusely, I've managed to inch the fake Spanks to mid-calf. I'm on my way!
More sweat. Some cursing. Minutes pass painfully. At long last, by wedging my entire fist into the back side and pulling as hard as I would pull a drowning child out of a raging river, I manage to stretch, beyond reason, the fakers up to waist level.
There still remains about eight inches of the elastic fabric that is so skin-tight I fear I'm going to turn blue. The access fabric should, again theoretically, easily be pulled upward, thereby smushing in the unwanted poundage that rolls between one's waist and bust. That's a vast area, I'd say.
But I'm determined. I push and pull and pry and push some more. Finally, I suck in all the air a human is capable of sucking in and I yank with all the power I can muster and…..SUCCESS! It's there, in place. I am wrapped so tightly from just above the knees to just below the bust that I feel like an apple that's just been cored. The fake Spanks is the core. It's so tight I cannot take a breath without pain. And I'm sweating. Profusely. It's soaking through the fake garment and puddling in the hip area, which I can't even see now because it hurts too much to bend.
It's about 68 degrees in my house and I'm supposed to wear this UNDER my clothes in 90 degree heat. Hmmmmmmmmmmm.
I thought of backing out, but then decided I'd at least try it with the suit that I intended to wear to the shmancy event. And so, between gasping breaths for air, I grabbed the suit off the rack…a lovely dusty rose duo. I manage to bend just enough to slide on the pants. Then the jacket. I feel like I'm in a vise.
One of the selling point of the fake Spanks is the "no panty line" pitch. Guaranteed. Well, they're right. There is no panty line. There is, however, a clearly defined "above the knee" line. And here's the worst part. If you take too deep a breath, which you're tempted to do when you fear that breathing will cease at any moment….you risk the chance of the faker Spanks "rolling." That's right. They start at the top, just below the supposed bustline, and WHAM!"
It was much like what an over-inflated party balloon hooked to one's thumb does when it begins to slip off the thumb, roll by roll. It inches its way forward (or downward, as the case may be) and then …blub, blub, BLAM! It's a gonner…flopping all over the room, hitting walls and the ceiling and finally coming to rest on the floor, deflated. And so it is with the fake Spanks. Once the skin tight, unforgiving fabric begins its descent, there's no rescuing it. The plunge is going to come to a screeching halt around what used to be your waist, at which time you will experience somewhat of a relief from the waist up, and the sensation of having an inner tube squeezing the life right out of you at the center of your being. It is no fun, nor is it attractive, nor does it grant you the appearance of being 20 pounds lighter.
On a scale of 1 to 10, I would grade the fake Spanks at about a negative 9. And that's being generous.
I thought about returning the $12 garment to W.A.Lamart. But what do I say? …"I'm sorry, but this was just too big," or "I just decided I didn't need this afterall."
Or how about trying the honest approach? "This thing almost killed me and not only to I want my money back, but I demand payment for emotional and psychological duress, not to mention the damage to my bedroom's ceiling fan when the device shot off my cankles and into the path of the overhead blades, slinging it round and round and finally coming to rest upon the bedside table in a teeny heap.
If we ever capture BinLaden, we should put him in a 3x3 concrete room in a pair of Spanks. It would end terrorism, as we know it.
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