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Tuesday, October 25, 2005

The Wetsuit

Let's just say that too much going out and drinking, a little excessiveness with eating out, and not making enough time for the gym since I've moved back to Chicago has left me with some extra poundage that snuck up on me. (By snuck up I meant that today I convinced myself it was a better idea for us to check out a clothing sale and order a pizza instead of rushing to the gym after work.) At any rate, when my October wedding extravaganzas came about I was less than pleased with the results of myself in a dress. Simulation of a conversation between a concerned friend and me:


Me: Oh my god, I just tried on a dress and it was not a pretty sight. We're talking the zipper wouldn't go up.
Friend: Come on, you've got to be exaggerating.
Me: I swear to God. I know my boobs are a little extra large this time of the month, but the struggle that just occurred in my room was of much concern.
Friend: Hmmmm. Well, were you wearing one of those body shapers?
Me: Body Shaper?
Friend: What? Girl, no wonder. I refuse to leave my house in a dress without my trusty body-shaper. Even Oprah wears one.


I must say, I was intrigued by the notion of a body shaper. I was a little frightened at first but I figure being single is the perfect time to sport a body shaper, right? So I head on over to Marshall Field's on my lunch break in search of a Body Shaper. Well, the concerned friend was right. These body shapers do work small miracles. However, when I put on the shaper that was my size I definitely couldn't breathe or bend over, let alone bust a move on the dance floor at a wedding. Not to mention the problem with the shaper is that it's so dang tight that everything else just spills over the top and the bottom of the device. Determined not to leave without at least some sort of self-confidence booster, I settled on one of the contraptions in a couple sizes too big so that I could at least make sudden movements without exploding.


Come that weekend, I was rocking this thing like there was no tomorrow. It was like a full on wetsuit. Okay, so it only came to the top of the thighs and went up to the chest and since it was bought in such a size of which I could breathe, it really didn't do all that much. But I could still pretend it did.


The only problem is, I wasn't a very good wetsuit wearer. Apparently the beauty of the wetsuit lies in the fact that people aren't aware that you are wearing it. People are supposed to think there's a freaking supermodel under there. Evidently I missed that memo because as soon as I got a couple drinks in me, I was non-stop babbling about my undergarments. I found myself accidentally confessing the girdle-esqueness to the primarily Polish-speaking table-clearer, my fellow attendees, the doorman, you name it. The worst part of it all was when after conducting some business in the bathroom I was hoisting that thing up, pulling with all my might, and some poor innocent person walked into my evidently haphazardly-locked bathroom stall. So then I was forced to launch into the explanation of my sporting a wetsuit so that she didn't think I was some sort of undercover aquatic explorer posing as your average wedding reception-goer.


So, in conclusion I should probably forgo the wetsuit wearing for less time at the bar and more time at the gym. After the world series I'll give up my boyfriend Podsednik and get this sorry ass in shape.


8:21 PM ::  :: E-Mail