Peggy’s Prompt—February 28, 2011—stand still—25 minutes

Peggy’s Prompt—February 28, 2011—stand still—25 minutes

(not a true story----but it could be!)

“Stand still,” she said. “I can’t get this thing zipped up if you’re wiggling.” “This thing” was one of those “body shapers”—actually, they’re supposed to be body RE-shapers, but anyhow, it was my first experience with these torture devices. I’d worn elastic girdles in my youth, and once I owned one of those long-waisted bras that’s supposed to hid the bulges around the waistline. But in those days I didn’t really need body re-arrangers. I was thin enough that my natural self was good enough. But young women are never satisfied with how their bodies look, so that’s how I came to wear a few of them.

But, now, in the interest of keeping up with the times, I thought I’d try out one of these nearly whole-body thingys all the beautiful people seem to be wearing, as by now my body could use a whole lot of re-shaping. I passed up the opportunity to try one with no zipper that you just step into and pull up over your shoulders. I figured no amount of pulling would ever get that thingy up as far as my shoulders, not without taking off a few layers of skin along the way. So I settled for a sissy-version, one that has a zipper up the back, sort of like a wet-suit, I think, although I’ve never put on a wet-suit either. Anyhow, my friend Carol agreed to help me with this new cultural experience if I would make the purchase by myself. I think she was a little embarrassed to be seen in a store with a woman buying a re-shaper that clearly was not going to remake her body enough to warrant the expense. But I said OK, and now we’ll skip over the selection/buying experience and focus on the try-on experience.

Did you ever see Gone With the Wind, that scene where Scarlett is being laced up into her corset by her maid so that she’ll have an 18-inch waist? Well, my experience was nothing like that. Nothing like that at all. For one thing, my “maid” was my not-so-helpful friend Carol who couldn’t keep her wisecracks to herself, something Scarlett never had to contend with. And for another, there isn’t a garment made that could have gotten my waist anywhere near those 18 inches. Not even 28 inches. And I’ll stop there, although I could go on.

We started by my dusting my whole body with powder in order to reduce friction as much as possible when putting on the re-shaper. This got a little messy, and brought on a sneezing fit in my friend, who appeared to be allergic to Mary Kay’s best after-shower body-powder. Then I stepped into some polyester undies, again to reduce drag (hopefully) when I pulled the re-shaper up. I will say it wasn’t too bad getting the re-shaper up and fitted snugly around my thighs. (My thighs aren’t my biggest problem.) But then we arrived at the middle section of my body. With the zipper all the way down, I could just barely pull, drag, and tug the re-shaper up and over what seemed to be a lot more flesh than I’d remembered. Which said flesh wanted to roll upward along with the re-shaper, so that by the time I had the thingy up to my waist, I had developed a ring around my middle, sort of like those floating rings you use in the swimming pool.

Well, OK. Now came the struggle to get my arms into the sleeves and the top pulled up over my shoulders. I finally did manage to do this, again with the zipper still wide open, but now I couldn’t stand up straight. I seemed to have developed such a significant curve in my back that my chin almost touched my navel.

Now it was time to close the zipper. Who were we kidding? There was no way that zipper was going to be strong enough to hold together the two sides of that already stretched-to-the-limit re-shaper. But Carol insisted we give it a try. She gave the zipper a tug and it moved about a millimeter, managing to snag a few of those tiny, nearly invisible hairs that cover our bodies. Owwww, I said. No pain, no gain, she said. Here we go again, she said. And then she pulled with all her strength on the zipper tab. No movement whatsoever. Nothing. I told you, I said. This isn’t going to work. Don’t give up yet, she said. We’ve just begun the fight.

So she had me stand facing forward flush up to the bed so that I’d have something to lean my knees against, while she placed one of her knees firmly on my lower back/upper butt, just below the zipper. Thus stabilized, she simultaneously pulled on the zipper while she leaned into my butt with her (bony) knee. Uffff, I said. Hey, it went up a ways, she said. Let’s do that again. So, inch by inch, she man-handled the zipper up my back, all the while inflicting serious pressure (and pain) on my lower back with her (bony) knee. By the time the zipper was almost up to boob level, we were both panting, and to tell the truth, I was sweating a bit, too. And that didn’t help with the friction situation.

Now, she said, stand up real straight and pull your shoulders way back and I’ll get this last little bit of zipper. I did what she said as best I could, trying to straighten up without screaming, and with some success. Huhhhhh, she said. There you all. All zipped up. Let’s see how you look.

She turned me slowly around to face the full-length mirror on the closet door. Taking very tiny breaths and feeling like I might pass out at any second from the pressure, I let my eyes rise up far enough to catch a glimpse of my new self in the mirror. OMG! There stood a stooped tree trunk draped in white, pretty much the same circumference from top to bottom. The re-shaper had done its duty. It had rearranged my Pillsbury dough-boy original shape into a cylindrical tube, sans curves of any kind, even the wrong ones.

Get this thing off of me, I said to Carol, before I pass out from lack of oxygen. OK, she said. Stand still. Here we go.



Uh-oh, the zipper seems to be stuck.