American Thighs (13 page)

But now they have taken away our camouflage, sent us out with all our spider veins laid naked before the world, AND they've put us BACK in the GIRDLE! I don't care what cute name you market it under—it is a GIRDLE and I am agin it!

(Amusing aside regarding cute product names: No matter how cute and/or simple you try to make it—somebody somewhere will screw it up. I read a whole column of fashion tips in the newspaper once and the so-called consultant was recommending the Spanx brand of foundation garments—except he was an idiot and kept calling it The Spank. How hard is it to read a one-word label? But then I ran across a woman who had been advised by her “consultant” to get some Spanx, only she didn't know about 'em and apparently didn't understand the instructions because she called all her friends to report that she had been out all day trying to buy a SKANK and she could not wear this new dress until she got a SKANK and did we know where the hell you could buy a fucking SKANK in this town?
We were pretty tickled—and, of course, now WE call 'em Skanx.)

Back to the stream of consciousness: Not only is it positively torture to have to walk around in all day, a girdle is like the reverse equivalent of falsies—in that, sooner or later, the Truth WILL Out and it's not likely to win any beauty contests when it do. If you're flat, you're flat—if you're fat, you're fat—and no amount of supplementing or squeezing will fool anybody to the contrary for very long. The only true remedy for either condition must be permanent—in the form of either acceptance or actual change—or you're doomed to forever fooling with some uncomfortable contrivance.

I will admit that a panty with power—especially one with the power extended midway down one's thighs—can be advantageous if for no other reason than this: no matter what shape your shape is in, this foundation garment WILL smash your butt cheeks so firmly together that there is absolutely no danger of your outer garment becoming lodged between them, and that's a plus, I don't care who you are. For this achievement alone, the creator of them deserves the Nobel Prize for Engineering. And it should be noted that this would be THE ONLY benefit the model on the package could conceivably NEED from this product.

The problem with these squeezy suits is a natural byproduct of the original positive intent for them. Unwitting pudgy people are duped into buying them because of our un
wavering willingness to believe in the concept of The Immaculate Reduction. We view the photos of the models wearing the various miracle suits and we immediately, in our mind's eye, see ourselves svelte, like this model right here on this package. We want more than just about anything for there to be some instant fix for our fat—something work-and deprivation-free. Something to keep our thighs from sticking together in the summer like massive, sweaty flesh magnets. I'd give strong consideration to taking it over world peace if the two were offered up—but, of course, neither one of 'em is what you'd exactly call LIKELY.

But step back and allow yourself to SEE one of the models they use for these cruel ads. Were you to see her in real life, in person, in natural light, you would swear she had been chained to a radiator in an unlit basement and fed nothing but cellophane for the last eight years. And yet she looks lithe and lovely in the photograph—that's because, using the forensic computer technology developed for re-creating the faces of mummified remains, they air-brushed FLESH onto her bones for the photo.

You imagine that if she were to peel away the miraculous microfiber vestments, her true physique would unfurl and she would actually look a lot like, well, you. The Truth is this: what with the marvels of augmentation surgery available today, if we were to chance upon her in a state of full nekkidity, we would likely mistake her for a nightstand with the top drawer pulled out.

Matter is never lost in the entire Universe—this is why it is impossible for there to be an overall net weight loss among the human race. If one of us loses a pound, another one of us finds it, and so the weight just gets passed around unto infinity. If it cannot be lost, why are we so easily persuaded that it can at least be hidden?

If they hired a model from within the ranks of the actual living humans who regularly consumes calories—well, never mind—THAT is never going to happen. BECAUSE you know what happens when a genuine figure flaw is forced into Lycra: it just pops out somewhere else. The photo of a REAL woman in a pair of power panties might indeed render the square footage actually contained within them smooth and firm—but if you were to shift the camera at all, you would see fat stuff poking out all over the place. You wouldn't be able to actually SEE the waistband because it would be completely covered by the fat that was pushed up and out by the powerful panties—and having no vertical support, it just lops over the waistband and rests comfortably on the top of the hips.

My favorite are the swimsuits that offer “tummy control.” Okay, these might be beneficial if your ONLY problem area is a very slight stomachular pooch. I don't know that I've ever encountered any woman who was perfect in every way, except for that one little bitty bulge below her belly button. Maybe you're her and if so, fine—get you one of these bathing suits or pairs of slacks or skintight dresses all currently in the marketplace that
claim they will cause you to immediately look five pounds thinner if you put them on.

And can we just say that if a five-pound improvement is all you need—you really don't need ANYTHING, you skinny bitch, get away from me, you make me look even fatter.

But let's just say that you are, for the sake of discussion, NORMAL, and, as such, there is spare You everywhere—not just on your tummy but on your back and your arms and your butt and your thighs—just everydamnwhere—but let's just talk thighs here for a minute. See, the “control” stuff they use is not just across the tummy part—it's the whole bottom half of the suit—including, of course, the LEG HOLES, and what that means to you, if you have ANY bonus flesh on the upper portion of your legs, is it's going to look like you have, for reasons best known to yourself, chosen to come poolside with extremely tight rubber bands on the tops of your thighs and so to the horrified observer it will appear that you were going for the Pontoon Look today.

When you squeeze your fat it can go “in” only so far—on account of we have inconveniently located vital organs and bones in there taking up valuable fat storage space. Thus, the squozen fat mostly has to go either north or south and so you don't really so much eliminate bulges as you relocate them. The only possibility I can see for eliminating the Rubber Band Effect is to make Lycra long johns. Of course, even that is not without unwanted side effects, like swelling, and then your rings and
shoes won't fit but at least you won't be lumpy. You might even notice your necklaces feeling snug, but if your glasses are feeling too tight, by all means go to a secure area and try to slowly open a safety valve somewhere in the suit to take the pressure off before gangrene sets in.

Thy Merrell Sandals and Thy Big Panties, They Comfort Me

I couldn't say with certainty when the line was crossed—I don't remember seeing it off in the distance, moving closer to it, and finally crossing it, leaving it fading farther and farther into the distance behind me as I move relentlessly forward on Life's Pathway. But I can tell you that on THIS side of that line, a chance meeting with a girlfriend is not likely to bring with it those squeals of “HEEEYYY! CUTE SHOES!” On account of we are both wearing Merrell sandals—usually black slides—they are indescribably comfy.

Seriously, I saw my friend Adrienne the other night for the first time in about five years—and she, at least, has always been a real fashion plate. I can't recall ever seeing her when she wasn't “put together.” On my BEST day, those words would not describe me—I'm more often described as “clean,” but only when people for some reason feel obligated to compliment me on SOMETHING. On this occasion, however, we both had on
deliciously loose, sacklike cotton clothing and the same IDENTICAL black Merrell slides and we actually did engage in a brief exchange of “Heeeyy! Cute shoes!” but you could tell it was hardly the same—black Merrells just don't evoke squealage from spectators. You'll hear some definite sincere moans of pleasure, however, in the shoe store when someone our age tries them on for the first time. And that's all it takes—your Cute Shoes days are over.

And the really great thing is—I know it's impossible for some of y'all to believe it right now, just trust me on this as you have come to do on so many other important life issues—you will NOT be sorry. In fact, you will wonderingly ponder on the fast-fading memories of the time in your life when you sought out shoes with three-inch heels to wear to work—because they were then perfect to wear straight to the dance floor, should you work overtime on your regular Thursday night session of red town-painting.

Hey—speaking of that—why would anybody want to paint a town—red or otherwise—and think that was a fun way to spend an evening? Just curious. Although, as I think about it, every house painter I personally have ever employed has been a religiously practicing alcoholic. I'm sure there are legions of sober ones out there—I just never have managed to find one of 'em. No, I take that back—the guy who painted our lake house porch was an absolutely sober, delightful, and punctual young man. Okay, so there's one.

When I found myself the sole possessor of what had been my first marital home, I decided it needed more improvements than just the reduction of inhabitants to make it livable, and painting was on the list of requirements. I have no recollection of how I came to make the acquaintance of the two individuals I was to hire for this task but I'll certainly never forget THEM. Tom and Ed. Ed was burly and brash—also big. Tom was slight, shy, and sweet—imagine Barney Fife was drinking himself to death and right before he succeeded in that, you hired him to paint your living room—that was Tom.

I came home one day and they had taken my front door off to paint it—red, as it happens—so I was able to just walk right in, with no worries of possibly knocking one of them off a ladder as I opened the door. As it turned out, there was no need to worry about the possibility of knocking either of them off a ladder because they were both sprawled out on my living room floor, dead-ass drunk and sleeping like big ole nasty babies.

Stepping over the beer cans, the bodies, and the abandoned, stiffening paint brushes, I made my way to the solitary sanctuary of my bedroom to place a call for consult and commiseration to my sole steadfast source for these and all things—my sister, Judy. While we were lamenting the sorriness of this state of affairs, it managed to move itself from the bad category over to the upper quadrant of worse when I peeked out of my room to check on the situation and saw that the dead had apparently risen and departed the premises—leaving my living room not
only drunk-free, which was a definite improvement, but also DOOR-free, which was maybe not so great. It was to remain in both states for two solid weeks until they finally returned. The only reason I am still alive to relate this story is that it occurred in 1983, probably the last year it was safe enough in that neighborhood to do something as stupid as leave the front door off a house for two minutes, let alone two weeks.

Anyway, all that is to say that my own personal experience with Things Being Painted Red was not sufficiently fun so as to inspire repetition and certainly not enough to broaden the scope to include a whole town, cute shoes notwithstanding.

You will, one day, find that the memory of the days of your shoeful indiscretions will kindle not so much nostalgia as incredulity that you ever sought out, spent good money on, and then actually spent TIME in shoes that today you would think snacking on after they'd stepped in dog-doo would be preferable to having to wear them.

No, when you see some darlin' young thing prance by precariously perched on top of a pair of four-inch Jimmy Choos, you will NOT be envious in the slightest. You will, rather, wince inside on behalf of her poor feet that are, at that very moment, storing up piles of painful memories in their soles with which to torture her just a few years hence.

Often the Big Panty Conversion and the Comfy Shoe Switch coincide but it's not carved in stone. Big Panties are generally discovered during pregnancy and we never willingly give them
up for long after that. Usually, the only way we ever give them up is in the case of Divorce and/or Death, which results in a repeat plunge into the dating pool, thereby unfortunately necessitating a resumption of Pretty Underwear for a time, but once we either settle in with a new man or get reeeeeally happy without one, it's amazing how fast we find that “the dryer ate my thongs” and Queen Comfort reigns supreme once more.

Even though the appeal of mile-high strappy sandals mercifully diminishes for us, the lure of a pair of really cool boots seems to be more enduring. First of all, it's possible to find fabulous boots that do not also have ridiculously high heels, and they keep our feet warm in the winter—the importance of which increases for us with time. But equally important, I think, is the fully empowered mind-set that comes with the donning of really cool boots—we're comfy, we're warm—we can handle ANYTHING—and if not, then we can at least kick the crap out of it.