Mention the word “Spanx” to a woman of a certain age and you’re likely to be answered with a “Thank you, Jesus!” Atlanta-based designer Sara Blakely’s creation, a kind of footless pantyhose and magical blend of nylon and Lycra, could be the best invention in the history of womanhood save L’Oreal’s Revitalift!
At age 42, according to the May 2013 issue of Forbes Magazine, Blakely is the world’s youngest woman to make $1 billion on her own. She’s filthy stinkin’ rich for good reason. I became the owner of my very 1st pair of Spanx, contributing $38.00 to Blakely’s fortune, this past week. I chose a mid-thigh number that I can wear under summer dresses and Capri pants.
I gave the Spanx a test run under a shortish Moroccan print dress I was considering wearing for my uber awesome book launch party next month. I couldn’t help marveling at how well the garment was smoothing and holding in place All that is me without a single jiggle. I looked like I’d lost a good 12 pounds overnight!
For the life of me I couldn’t understand why some women complain about wearing the magic undergarment during hot Southern summer months. I was feeling fine. No swampy Spanx for me!
I worked at my desk (happily and productively, in case Little Sister and Boss Lady Stacey Hardy is reading this post), went to a dental appointment and shopped for groceries at my favorite Winn-Dixie in perfect comfort for over 10 hours in my Spanx with nary a complaint. In fact, was that a refreshing breeze I felt every now and again as my dress swished a few inches above my knees?
When I was home with the groceries I realized that the Super Spanx must have also been exuding some of its powers on my bladder—I hadn’t had to go to the bathroom since getting dressed that morning. I made a mental note to insist that Little Sister wear a pair of the dandy Spanx the next time we travel together—it would be nice to make a 6 hour trip in under 9 hours, after all—and decided I’d better go on and try to “go”.
This is when I discovered my mistake. Seems the style of Spanx I’d selected for myself is crotch-less. Sure, I’d read the part of the packaging that insisted the garment was so sleek that it wouldn’t allow for visible panty lines under any outfit, but I hadn’t wanted to take any chances. I hadn’t worn any underwear.
Immediately my mind began to enumerate the masses that may have gotten an unintended glance at my naughty bits. There were my coworkers, but most of us are female and related. If they’d seen me expose myself they would have said so after they posted a video of the debauchery on Instagram and YouTube. There was my hygienist and dentist. Oh, God! I’d wriggled awkwardly out of the side of the elevated dental chair to grab my cell phone while my hygienist Pam looked on. Was this the reason Dr. Young hadn’t made eye contact with me? Hadn’t he garbled his customary “Good job on your teeth, see you in six months” before rushing from the room? Then there was the produce boy at Winn-Dixie. Dear Lord. How graceful had I been when I’d wrestled that 20 pound watermelon off the floor of the produce department and into my buggy?
What is the world coming to with Paula Deen using the “n-word” and your next favorite YA author (wink, wink) running around flashing her hoo-ha in the public open air as if she were Brittney Spears or Lindsay Lohan?
I’m writing to Ms. Sara Blakely of the Spanx Empire in ATL. I’ll be asking her on behalf of dentists, hygienists, stock boys, and young readers everywhere to more prominently inform buyers of her magic undergarments crotch-less design. Perhaps some bug-eyed or unconscious figures at the feet of the little cartoon lady smiling from ear-to-ear on the pink packaging?
My sincere apologies if you happen to be among any of my victims between the hours of 7 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. last Thursday. I promise it won’t happen again!