Spanx

“You about ready Sara?” my friend called from the other room.

I glanced down at the Spanx suit around my knees. “Just about!” I called back.

I grabbed hold of the fabric, scrunched it up and pulled it over my thighs. Carefully unrolling it a centimeter at a time, I tucked extra bits in here and there, pausing to adjust my underwear when it got stuck. I pulled the fabric across my torso, made sure the butt indentations lined up correctly, and pulled the straps over my shoulders.

Good grief, how will I ever go to the bathroom? I’ll have to completely disrobe.

I caught my reflection in the floor length mirror, turned sideways to see if any slimming had happened, and reached for my dress. It was difficult to move. Things pinched here and there. I even squeaked when I moved.

This is ridiculous. Aren’t Spanx supposed to be comfortable?

I slid my dress over my head. While I had to admit my silhouette looked better as the fabric settled into place, the Spanx were longer than the dress!

For crying out loud, I thought blowing an errant piece of hair off my forehead, I don’t have time for this.

I yanked the dress and the restraining undergarment back off, and reached for my  backup Spanx — the biker short length. They didn’t cover me from shoulder to knee but perhaps would cover the most essential parts of my midsection.

“Sara?” my friend called.

“Ya, I know. I’m hurrying!” I yelled back.

But, even the shorts weren’t short enough! The Spanx fabric still peeked out from under the dress. I sat on the toilet, trying to push the fabric up, bunch it out of sight. It didn’t work.

Now what? All the girls look gorgeous in their leather pants and cute dresses. I feel like a frumpy mess.

Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I sighed. What am I doing? Why am I so intimidated? I never worry this much.

I was traveling with several women, half of whom I didn’t know. It was intimidating. To prepare, I’d spent the preceding two weeks at appointments. I’d dyed my hair, done my nails, shopped for new clothes, experimented with botox. I tried on every outfit I packed, ensuring all the accessories and combinations were Instagram worthy. I exercised. Fasted. Tanned. Fretted. Packed. Unpacked. And packed again.

Despite my efforts to be brave instead of perfect, I became consumed by the pressure to measure up to my companions.

Am I even enjoying my time here? Why is it so easy to fall back into perfectionism?

“Sara? Everyone is ready.”

I stood up and yanked off the spanx. I pulled on my boots, and assessed my reflection in the mirror. My eyes gravitated to my trouble areas, spotting a lump here, a divot there.

As my perfectionistic thoughts prepared their critique, I defiantly lifted my chin to stop them.

I am strong. I am confident. I have much to offer. I am brave, not perfect. I don’t need Spanx. I am beautiful– soft places and all.

“Let’s go have some fun,” I said as I yanked the bathroom door open.

“I love your dress,” one friend called as we headed out of the hotel room.

I smiled.“You can stay here,” I whispered to the Spanx, shoving them into my dresser drawer. “I’m fantastic without you.”

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