Spanx Attack

I want to talk about foundations. No, not the things that houses are built on. I’m talking undergarments. They called them girdles back in the day.  My Texas grandmother had one that kind of looked like those one-piece suits the wrestling guys wear. Except that it had a little metal in it, I think. I came around the corner once and saw her in it. Whoa.  Believe me, it has taken years of therapy to scrub that image from my mind.

Anyway, we’ve certainly come a long way, baby. Now they’re called bodyshapers with brand names like Spanx, which has a saucy sound to it. But then there are the Yummie Tummies. That sounds like something I called my little boys when they had those squishy little bellies. A “yummie tummy” is only cute when you’re a toddler. Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants a “yummie tummy” when they're 45.

I just got the Spanx catalog and admittedly those girls look great. But here’s the thing: If you look closely, you’ll see that they are taking 23-year-old Victoria’s Secret models, slapping a Spanx on them and telling us that’s what we’ll look like if we buy it. They lie. You could put a burlap sap on a Victoria’s Secret model and probably sell it as evening wear.

They make all kinds of promises about how you’ll look with Spanx on under your clothes but they should include an ibuprofen and a crowbar with each item because you’re going to throw out your back trying to squeeze into the thing and after sweating in it for a couple hours, you’re going to need help prying the thing off your body. I’d schedule a chiropractor appointment in advance.

Seriously, I’m surprised more women haven’t passed out from these things. It probably gets misdiagnosed a lot. “Officer, woman down. Do you think it could be a heart attack? No. That thing she’s wearing under her clothes is cutting off her circulation. It’s a Spanx Attack. Just cut it off her. She’ll be fine. That’s a 10-4.”

The problem is that these things ultimately don’t get rid of the fat. They just redistribute it. Once, I shoved myself into an undergarment designed to “eliminate muffin top.” I squeezed myself into it, turned around to observe myself in the mirror and realized I had a strange lump up around my shoulder.  The fat has to go somewhere, people.

I’d like to think that diet and exercise will eliminate the need for Spanx or any other body shaping garment. But until then, I think I’m just going to wear my bathing suit under my clothes.

The Parent-Teacher Conference

We’re about two weeks out from the twice-yearly event that has me waking up in the middle of the night with sweaty palms. The Parent-Teacher Conference.  

I love the teachers. I hate the conferences. I know they are important but I can’t help feeling that it’s my mothering skills, not my boys’ academic performances, that are being critiqued. I know this is twisted. I’ve always believed that children are NOT extensions of their parents, that they are separate individuals with their own personalities, skills and challenges, and that we should not take everything they do and make it all about us. But that objective wisdom escapes me when I squeeze my behind into those little chairs and face the teacher.  I feel like I should show up with a nice apple for the desk.

When a teacher says, “Your child would benefit from a little more nightly study,” I hear “You are a big fat loser because your son has an itouch and you’ve allowed him too much time to play with it.”

When another teacher says, “Your child needs to focus a bit more in class,” I hear “You know all those Little Debbie Swiss Rolls you ate while you were pregnant? Well, you’re paying the price for them now.”

When I’m told, “Your child gets a little rowdy during recess,” I hear, “You just couldn’t give up the caffeine while you were carrying him, right?”

Conversely, if an instructor says, “Your child is well-liked by his peers and is a good leader,” I hear, “It’s a good thing he’s got you for a mother because you’ve clearly raised him right.”

My boys have always been blessed with great teachers. Very committed. Very kind. Nevertheless, I skulk into and then skulk out of these meetings. It’s enough to make me want to homeschool. Which is saying a lot since I’ve always declared that the Almighty himself would have to walk in my house and instruct me to homeschool my kids before I’d even consider it.

Thank goodness my husband is usually present to serve as the voice of reason after these meetings. But oddly, when the teacher says “Your child needs to focus,” my husband hears, “Your child needs to focus.” Weird. He clearly doesn’t know how to read between the lines.

And I know he thinks I’m a little wacky about all this. Maybe. But I’m going to go polish some apples just in case.