Shapely? Shape Me? Ship Shape? 

So can we talk about the need to turn every female Halloween costume into “sexy”.  Sexy nurse.  Sexy podiatrist.  Sexy garbage man.  

Who would like to start?

Pick me.  Pick me.  PICK ME?   *demon voice* Pick meeee.  

I mean really.  Sexy Ken Bone?  Really?  Genius?   We are women.  Newsflash, we’re all sexy.  Now I’ll show you the man’s version.  

What? No bared midriff?   

That just makes me table flipping mad.  Turn about is fair play.  If every female costume is tarted up then we at least deserve a little hairy back glimpse.  Cheaters.  

I received a catalogue from Spanx this week.  Apparently word got around that I’m curvy.  Righteous.  I would like to spread that rumor around like melted butter.   The more people that know, the better.  This definitely yields better odds on people baking stuff for me which is a win/win. 

I was researching a bit on Marilyn Monroe.  Sexy right?   She made a career on it, bless her soul.  So what is sexy?   Is sexy defined in terms of skimpy clothing?  Is it defined in intellect?  She was not a dumb blonde.  She was a broken, sad woman who got caught up in an image. 

This past weekend I went away for a girls weekend.  Part of the weekend was spent taking new pictures for the cover of this blog. It was an exercise in absurdity.  I was in a corseted Pepto Bismol pink gown complete with taffeta skirt and bejeweled bodice.  It was hideous.  The boots I’ve owned since about 1997 or so and the jacket was a lark purchased in a vintage shop which is one of my favorite places on Earth.  Every vintage shop – everywhere.  Those two things were definitely me.  The dress?   Not so much.  I loathe myself in pink.  It makes me look perpetually sunburned.  Marilyn looked good in pink.  I am no Marilyn.   Did you know she was actually not a plus size?  She was buxom and curvaceous.  Dress sizing was different then.  We had not yet adopted the masochistic sizing standard we have now that allows women to identify their self worth in a fucking dress size.  Then it was based more off of measurements.  So after taking girdles and shapewear out of the picture she was comfortably a size 8 or 10.  Still- that ain’t no size 2 kid.  

So today I brought my Spanx catalogue to work and left it on my desk.  I watched it.  It watched me. It watched me go face first into my lunch special chicken and broccoli.  #iaintsorry

I’m not sure what to think of this particular article of clothing.  I own slips and camisoles and brassieres and other assorted undergarments but no body shapers.  Do they work?  Are they comfortable?   Do they have a sweatpant version of them?   My fear is that they lose their effectiveness once they roll up like a window shade over your ass.  Is there anything worth this particular humiliation?  I think not.  

But it’s all part of this expectation of perfection.  It’s like padded bras.  Sure they make us look good but at some point you still have to take off all the accoutrement and look at yourself unadorned.  For women it’s not always that easy.  The marks which are somehow our identifiers also shame us.  Many of us have stretch marks from pregnancies.  Many of us have the belly pooch that never seems to go away.  We have cellulite.  Our breasts sag.  Our bodies by design are meant to gather fat in certain areas.  It’s part child bearing preparation whether we use it or not and part hormones.  It’s evolution.  It’s life. Yet somehow Spanx is supposed to mystically remove the bumps and rolls.  But what if I like them?  What if I earned them?  What if they are the baby I bore and the cakes I baked and the meals I made with love for my family.  What if they were the hours I spent with my parents instead of a gym because I don’t know how many good days/weeks/months or years my father has left.  What if I would rather walk peacefully for a mile with my friend than melt into a gym floor pretending to be interested in lifting weights.  

A few months back a Playboy model took a picture of a woman at her gym and posted it on social media stating  that if she couldn’t unsee it then neither could we.  You know what I can’t unsee?  The fact that this woman was in the shower and completely unaware that some nasty little dimwit who has probably diminished brain cells from the peroxide inhalation or possibly her augmented breasts were cutting off her oxygen supply was taking her picture.  Without consent.  Huh.  Seems to be a fucking theme lately.   Consent optional. 

Presumably the woman in question was there to get healthy.  Maybe she’d just had a baby.  Maybe she’d been taking care of her sick mother.  Maybe she works long hours and doesn’t have time. Maybe it’s none of our business why she was there.  

Spanx don’t really interest me.  I have good friends.  You know what that means?  They tuck in your back fat if it pops out.  They tell you when you have spinach in your teeth or a booger hanging out of your nose.  They tell you when you’re being a hormonal bitch and they cry with you when you’re on your knees.  And they only take your picture when you’re wearing a ridiculous pink gown and Doc Martens and never ever behind your back in a shower.  Just sayin

Size 12 baby.  #iaintsorry

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