Like most women, I gained weight after having a baby. And then I kept having them. And having them. And having them. After my fourth baby, the destruction was so complete, I think they could use my body as the pregnancy side-effect warning poster in High School health classrooms. It's not even just the weight thing. Sure, I'm twenty pounds over-weight, and that does kind of suck. But there's also a concern that I can't possibly feel attractive when I spend half my day chasing toddlers with a baby hanging off my boob like I'm some kind of tribal woman from a National Geographic documentary. What kind of juggernaut confidence can withstand that sort of assault?
Whatever the cause, I was struggling with my new image, and it was getting exhausting to care all the time. So when my husband proposed a real, honest-to-goodness date (even if it was on Friday the 13th), I knew it was time. It was time to look sexy, which meant Spanx.
The problem was, I bought those Spanx many pounds ago when I felt confident enough to be Black Widow for Halloween. It was a tight fit, even for a corset\ thing, but I managed to get them on. They're the kind that look like biker shorts and tube all the way up to my bust line. I could have splurged for the lederhosen kind that had straps, but who has an extra $5 laying around like that? Honestly. As it was, the tube part kept rolling down my waist, making me look more like Saturn rather than the marginally more desirable "svelt turnip" I was going for. I could not allow this. All parts must be smoothed.
I came up with the brilliant idea to safety pin my Spanx to my bra. Now, I know what you're thinking right now, but you're much smarter than I was, and any logistical concerns about how to pull that stuff back down in a moment of need went way over my head. All I knew was that I couldn't let this tubby belly jiggle, and I was going to strap everything in tighter than an Olympic swimmer's package, or I wasn't going at all.
Fast forward to date time. Hubby was drooling, and I sashayed with confidence, feeling a lot like Snooki. We went to a Movie Tavern, which allowed us to recline in puffy seats and eat fried food while we watched Captain America's gorgeous bice-- I mean, watched the Avengers save the world.
The first mistake I made was drinking an entire soda. The second mistake was drinking it in the first fifteen minutes. I tried to pick a boring part of the movie, and then booked it out of there toward the bathroom. It wasn't until I was halfway there that I understood my peril. I had that image of the fish thing from Star Wars scream in my mind, "IT'S A TRAP!"
Even as I closed the stall door, and my bladder bravely attempted to hold its crap together despite my weak pelvic floor muscles, I knew that there was no way in Hades I was going to undo four safety pins from my bra and wiggle that corset down before the pee came trickling down my leg. I gave a valiant effort, though. I hiked my dress up to my chin, and as I danced and fumbled with the pins, bumping around the stall like a desperate version of a pinball machine, the inevitable was happening. "No, no, no!" I clawed at my bra. Maybe I could pull the bra and Spanx and sexy underwear down all at the same time. Maybe if I -- NO, why were my boobs so big?
And then I peed my pants. Down my Spanx. Onto the floor. Pooling in the soles of my strappy high heels.
And it was in that very moment that I accepted my body as it really is. Standing in a puddle of my own urine, I finally realized how utterly *stupid* it is to hate my life-giving, God-created, perfectly-working post baby body to the point where I stuffed it in a spandex pee trap. And if I had just been chill with who I am, I wouldn't be standing there like an idiot with my dress hanging off my neck.
I cleaned up the best I could, which thankfully was easy enough after I took those safety pins off and removed the offending shapewear. Also I carry baby wipes with me everywhere. Mom perks. And then I made a promise to myself:
Don't ever go out on Friday the 13th again.