I packed myself like sausage into casing today.   I went to my cousin’s wedding, where I knew there would be people I had not seen in at least 15 years.  Pre-marriage, pre-children, pre-tonnage.    It was a fancy to-do and I wanted to look sharp, so some serious effort was required.  I was even willing to spend money.  I don’t think I have worn a dress in years, but I found something au courant on sale at Macy’s, and found a stylish pair of 3” heels to match.  New bag and new earrings completed the façade. 

Ah, but what about the stuffing?  The same store has an excellent selection of shapers.  These used to be called girdles, but somewhere along the line manufacturers figured out they could sell more if it weren’t so embarrassing to buy one.  Girdles are for fat women.  Shapers are for anyone wanting a clean line underneath her clothes.  Yeah, right.  I tried on the kind that covers you all over like a swimsuit, but I thought that might be a bit warm for a summer wedding.  Then I tried a pair of panties that come up above the waist  with stays in the side, sort of like a corset without any lacing.  I couldn’t breathe in that, so that was a “no go” regardless of performance.  I ended up buying one that proclaimed “firm control” on the drop tag, and felt like a panty vise.  But it did help smooth out the bulges, it wasn’t too heavy, and it didn’t pinch my waist so much that big rolls flopped out over the waistband, so it won by default. 

Then I had to deal with my bustline.  I have never been lacking in this area.  My dress was a straight piece, but not loose.  My usual stretchy comfortable bras with a token underwire lift, but offer no form, if you know what I mean.  And from the side my dress hung out a little too far from the rest of my body.  Without hesitation I selected an industrial strength little number masquerading in black lace.  Lift, separate, and no movement whatsoever.   Barbie couldn’t have done better. 

Thus equipped, I was flirty and feminine on the outside, but made of iron from bust to thigh.   It couldn’t be helped that all the people who hugged me felt like they were hugging a piece of scrap iron in frills and polka dots.  The point here is I looked nicer than I have looked in a long, long time.  I have little reason to dress up.  I work at home, and spend most of my time chasing kids.  Jeans, t-shirts, sweats, or shorts are my usual attire.  Comfort and ease of care are mandatory for my regular wardrobe.  But just for one day, I wanted to look nice.  I used to always look nice.  I had an incredible wardrobe, wouldn’t dream of stepping outside the house without makeup, and didn’t need to buy a shaper.  My own natural shape was just fine. 

Somewhere along the line, with the pounds and gravity of motherhood and middle age, looking nice became optional.  It was too hard, not kid friendly, and frankly uncomfortable.  So for one afternoon, I relived a bit of my youth.  I actually wore my darling little shoes for five hours before my big toe on the foot with a bunion starting sending out sharp pains.  It felt good to suffer for fashion.  It felt right.  The planets were appropriately aligned, and all was well with the world.