Not So Magic

Recently, whilst watching the Gardening channel, I began wondering what it was about Alan Titchmarsh that was so appealing. Was it his soft Yorkshire accent, the way he filled his wellies or how tenderly he handled the delphiniums in his care? I couldn’t tell. I flicked over to the Hallmark Channel to see if there were any cheesy Canadian straight-to-TV films on. Disappointed and not in the mood for spending my time productively or like an Under 50, I trawled the channels, finally landing on ‘How to Look Good Naked’.

It left me with a burning question that needed answering. Can any woman really live happily ever after if, behind her glamourous new facade, she’s secretly been compressed into a punishing polyester/elastane mix body suit with out so much as an air hole? Wouldn’t she feel like a fraud – knowing that beneath that washboard stomach and super pert bottom was a suffocating weeble desperate to get out? Wouldn’t she always worry about that unexpected gust of wind that sends her skirt flying around her ears and publically outs her Spanx flesh coloured power panties? And how good for your internal organs can it really be?

In the name of research, I decided to find out.

One ‘Better Bum Control’ expense claim later and I had the perfect occasion to trial my new ‘wonderwear’. A wedding.

At 7am, I tucked flabby tum tums into the ultra snug pants and, for security reasons, wore two vests that got tucked in too. Underneath, a padded bra, for propping and inflation. And finally, a pair of tights, pulled up to my armpits. Et voila. The foundations of my new fake body were built.

The chafing began at midday, a numb right bottom cheek followed at 3pm and complete loss of circulation in both legs at 8pm. Toilet visits took ages as the unpeeling, untucking, repeeling and retucking ritual left me considering flushing the lot down the loo. It was only the thought of the astonished gasps of my fellow guests as I returned to the table one stone heavier that stopped me.

Dancing was out of the question with such a strong chance of severing a leg, plus I was dizzy from all the shallow breathing. I longed for a deep breath but the pants forbade it.
Tired and bleeding, I hobbled back to the car where, under the cover of darkness, I spent ten minutes negotiating my release from my elasticated nightmare. It was with gratitude that I received the feeling back into my legs and my lower respiratory tract began to function again.

So, whilst magic knickers may flatten out those lumps and bumps, proceed with caution. Or, even better, let’s love our lumps – we’ve all got them after all! Let’s embrace our mummy tummies, use the damned pants to clean the windows and all enjoy a wobble around the dance floor together with a full oxygen supply!