The necessity of a term like “girdle” was undeniable. It conveyed a sense of boldness and determination. I had no time for gentle euphemisms such as “shapewear,” “slimproved,” or “body briefer.” With only three hours to shed 20 pounds before a significant dinner occasion, these pantyhose were my last resort.
I made an educated guess on the size, completed the purchase, and hurried home. Upon unboxing the pantyhose, they tumbled to the floor, stretching down the hallway. They were easily 8 feet long, with the girdle section measuring a staggering 4 feet. A quick glance at the packaging reassured me that I had selected the right size, and there was no indication of “irregular” anywhere. Had I not been pressed for time and anxious about my dress fitting, I might have found the situation humorous. These pantyhose seemed tailored for the tallest woman alive, and only a supermodel on a diuretic could dream of fitting into them. Even a vigorous pull at the waistband left me in a cold sweat, fearing I might never manage to get one leg—much less two (including thighs) and my stomach—into this contraption.
Taking a seat on the bed, I steadied myself. This had to be executed flawlessly. Once these pantyhose were on, I suspected that scissors would be my only exit strategy.
The back of the package, which I scrutinized closely, displayed an illustration of a silhouette wearing them. The waistband was designed to sit not at the natural waist but rather to grip beneath the breasts. This raised a question: would all the unwanted rolls of flesh below my waistline be pushed upward, perhaps resulting in an unintended enhancement? Whether intentional or not, I was on board with the idea! Excitement coursed through me.
I won’t bore you with the minutiae, but the process involved considerable swearing, hopping, perspiring, teetering, and yanking. It felt miraculous that the girdle had enough elasticity to contain my entire midsection. I thought I would appreciate my new, slender appearance, but discomfort quickly overshadowed any joy. A tingling sensation indicated that circulation was being compromised. Even my ability to breathe was hindered, and I had to settle for short breaths.
There was no room for hesitation; time was of the essence. Additionally, I had to accept a sagging crotch that rested two inches lower than intended, resulting in short strides for the remainder of the day. I retrieved my dress from the bed and maneuvered myself into it.
Upon arriving at the restaurant, I eased myself out of the car. Short steps, shallow breaths, a flat stomach, yet a fuller bust. As I approached the entrance, a whiff of freshly cut grass drifted by. I pinched my nose, bracing for what I anticipated would happen. It was too late. A series of robust sneezes erupted. The waistband could not endure the force of the third sneeze—it curled in defeat like a Swiss roll. The combined forces of gravity and momentum allowed my ample tummy to break free, cascading over the edge.
I finally took a deep breath for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Undeterred, I shuffled my way to the door. Short steps, deeper breaths, a protruding stomach, and a less-than-flat bust.
This article was originally published on June 17, 2015.
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In summary, my encounter with girdle-top pantyhose was a blend of challenge and comedy, highlighting the lengths we go to for special occasions. Despite the discomfort, the experience served as a reminder of the resilience required in both fashion and life.
Keyphrase: girdle-top pantyhose experience
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