THIGH MASTER

I was wearing panty hose for the first time in ages.  Just getting them on and pulled up over my hips and butt was enough to make me break out in a sweat! On top of that, they were the super-duper, suck-in-your-gut type that make you suddenly feel like your lungs, and the rest of your vital organs are in a vise! Do you ever wonder where all the fat that gets sucked in by those control top pantyhose goes?  Well, I’ll tell you…that shit gets shot due north out of the top of those damn things! On this particular day, mine was getting smooshed somewhere just above my bra band and below my shoulder blades.  I looked like I had instant osteoporosis! Of course that was only until the waistband decided to roll itself up like like a fresh spool of Christmas wrapping paper! I felt a little like Sisyphus, unwinding the waistband and stretching the hose as high up my midriff as they would go, only to find them seconds later resting below my ample muffin top!  As I kept readjusting, I couldn’t tell which look was worse–hunchback or the Pillsbury Dough Boy wrapped around my middle. But nevermind my discomfort and vanity. I had to pull it together!  It was the day we were finalizing Calvin’s adoption, and I wasn’t going to let bunched up nylon or fat back ruin anything!  I put on my skirt and sweater, and slipped into my brand new high heels. I recalled the mantra of the fabulous Iris ApfelIf your hair is done properly and you’re wearing good shoes, you can get away with anything! Good enough for me! I inspected Frank in his suit and Calvin in his “Gotcha Day” outfit and thought we looked like a nice family.  Off we went.

I slipped and slid my way across the black and white checkerboard tile floor of the courthouse–those new shoes were so slippery and I hadn’t thought to scuff the bottoms for a little better traction! Thank God Frank was carrying the baby, or I could have been charged with reckless endangerment of a minor!

Court was perfect!  The judge told us we were forever a family!  I cried.  We squeezed Calvin. We took pictures of our new, official family with the judge, and the attorney, and the adoption caseworker.  We said our thank yous and happy holidays, shook hands, hugged, and hurried to the car to start our long six-hour ride home.

In my haste, I hadn’t thought about putting a comfortable change of clothes in an easy to reach spot, so I rode home in my court clothes…the high heels pinching my toes, and the waist band of the hose squeezing so hard below my navel that I knew it would leave marks like surgical incisions once I could finally take them off!

We drove for hours.  It was raining, which made the drive stressful. Then it got dark. We were somewhere on the Ohio/West Virginia border and decided we had to stop.  Calvin needed to eat and so did we.  The next exit sign we could read through the rain and spray from countless big rig trucks had two options: a Denny’s and a Bob Evans (or Chez Robert as Frank likes to call it).  Two equally healthy and delicious options from which to choose. Decisions, decisions.

We walked into Chez Robert and I slipped and slid across the tiled foyer to our table. Calvin needed to be changed and I needed to go too, so I took my chances in my heels and misaligned panty hose. I scooped him up into my arms, threw his diaper bag on my shoulder, and shuffled like a four year old in her mama’s heels back across the tiled foyer to the rest room.  It might be worth noting that my family was dressed “way fancier” than any of other local patrons of the restaurant had likely seen–like ever!  So that being said, as I shuffled and slid across the restaurant, I could feel all the eyes on me.  I just said to myself, “Work it….Own it!”

With Calvin comfortably and securely strapped onto the germ bed known as the diaper changing station, I decided I would relieve myself first.  It went a little something like this…

I yanked my skirt up into a bunched up mess above my hips. I had two or three failed attempts to get my thumbs between the insanely tight, rolled waist of the pantyhose and the strangled flesh of my hips before I finally was able to release myself from their grip and get the pantyhose somewhere down around my knee caps.  As I was in four inch heels, my distance to the toilet seat was even more pronounced, and as I was in a public restroom somewhere off a random highway, in a restaurant that prides itself on drowning everything in sausage gravy, there was no way in hell that I was going to get any closer to that toilet seat than was absolutely necessary.

Squat and hover. Squat…and…hover.

Then it happened.

My right foot slid out from underneath me on the tile floor (DAMN SHOES!) and I went crashing down onto the toilet seat.  But that was just the beginning of my twenty second nightmare.  The toilet seat was apparently broken and as I crashed down, the whole seat shifted to the left and somehow, in some rule of physics or something science-y I don’t understand, MY THIGH FAT GOT SUCKED BETWEEN THE SEAT AND THE TOILET BOWL!

My screams and moans echoed off the stall walls. Calvin stared at me, confused. I was paralyzed, not only by the pain coursing through my body, but because my pantyhose had essentially shackled my legs together making it impossible for me to find my footing! So I sat there for what felt like an eternity as I basically gave my thigh a mammogram under the pressure of my own weight! Looking back, I think a shark bite would hurt less!

Finally, by the grace of God, I was able to get up. I inspected my inner thigh to find the bright start of a red, black, and purple bruise already rushing to the surface. My thigh immediately had its own pulse. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.  I changed Calvin with tears in my eyes and then shuffled, slid, hobbled, and winced my way back across the restaurant to our table, eyes following us the whole way. I cursed Spanx, pantyhose in general, high heels, slippery soles, six-hour car rides, and crappy restaurants.  I then proceeded to order the most fattening thing on the menu–you know, for medicinal purposes.

It’s been two and half weeks since the tragedy.  The bruising and soreness are starting to subside, but the memory lingers.  I’ve woken up with nightmares because of it!  I have toilet trust issues now as a result of it!  I will never be able to see a Bob Evans restaurant marquee again without having flashbacks!

And that my friends is why I am starting the Isagenix nutritional cleansing program starting on Monday! Most people resolve in their weight loss goals to achieve thighs that don’t touch. My New Year’s Resolution is much more modest. Mine is to never be fat enough again where my thighs can get sucked into a broken toilet seat vortex.  I think that’s a worthy enough resolution to try and keep!

Will keep you posted.

Happy New Year!!

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One thought on “THIGH MASTER

  1. You think you had it bad? I am a male that has to wear prescription 20-30mmHg pantyhose everyday. It takes me 15 minutes to get them on every morning and unlike most women that grew up wearing pantyhose this would probably be a 2 minute venture. I can tell you this that there is no way I can go to the bathroom without almost completely removing them down below my knees. At work I can only take so many 10 minute pee breaks before someones going to wonder what I am doing. The Sigvaris pantyhose I wear cost $216.00 at the vein clinic and I only get 4 months wear out of them before I need new pair. I am lucky if you can call it luck having to wear pantyhose that my insurance covers most the cost. When I go in to buy my next pair the gals at the clinic talk so everyone can hear about my new pair of pantyhose. Then there’s the box that they them come in with a full photo of a women in a dress wearing the pantyhose and high heels. I looked everywhere on the packaging where it might say these are for men or just maybe the word unisex. Not only are pantyhose every thing you said about them and more why did I have to be the guy that has to wear pantyhose. I can truly understand why almost every women hate them.

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