How Did THAT Get Out?

If you've spent any time here at all, you're likely already familiar with the many excellent arguments for occasionally sporting some serious shapewear.

However, I do have to admit there may be certain minor pitfalls to wearing them as well. No no no - please don't take them off on my account - I don't want to see your jiggly bits any more than you want me to see them. Let me reiterate my position: control undergarments are hands-down the awesomest inventions since the pastries and deep fried goodies that got you into them in the first place.

But sometimes, even amongst all the undisputed delights, there are rocky shores to navigate in your pursuit of an unnaturally compressed and cantilevered physique. Not least the possible liability issues associated with false advertising.

But it's not the squeezing into them like you're actively attempting to be swallowed by a boa constrictor that's three sizes too small to have any business trying to eat you that really gets to me. Nor is it the diaphoretic state you'll invariably spend the day in once you finally get them on, or the way they make your fat so firm that if someone is lured in under your false pretenses and actually makes a pass at you they're liable to ricochet right back off.

In fact, it's not even that disconcerting sensation of having a labia escape from the little crotch-flap doohickey just as you're sitting down to some sort of protracted and inextricable project meeting that bothers me the most.

Oh no.

The worst thing about wearing Spanx is perching awkwardly in a bathroom stall for seventeen straight minutes with your dress hitched up to your armpits and your head resting on the toilet paper dispenser, limbs akimbo and sweating like a motherfucker, trying desperately to convince your body it’s not actually dressed so you can go pee with them on.