Ever look at a picture of yourself and wonder – who the hell is THAT? Or, even worse – is THAT what I really look like?
Seeing yourself in an unflattering picture is ten times worse than hearing your own voice. That gravelly crackle, nasal honk or high-pitched whine that could not have come from you. Except it did.
I carry an extra 5 pounds (ish), and like most of us, I have certain body parts that I try to keep hidden so as not to frighten small children. My hated and squodgy belly has remained soft and rounded despite all of my efforts to crush it into crop-top-worthy submission. No toned, muscular, tanned and bikini-clad summers for this gal. Not exactly a tragedy in the grand scheme of things, but still.
My twp stepsons got married recently, and both weddings were lovely. One was traditional, in a lovely, wood-beamed, cathedral-ceilinged hall with a fieldstone fireplace and a dance floor, the other on a beach in Maui at sunset. Both were celebrations of love and family, and there is nothing about either one that I would change.
Except the pictures.
In those pictures, standing proudly next to the newly married couple, is a paunchy stranger in a red dress (traditional wedding) and a frazzle-haired, poochy-bellied frumpy grandmotherly-looking weirdo that I wouldn’t invite into my home, never mind my Maui wedding.
Its the only damn thing I see when I look at the pictures. That unabsorbed twin around my middle, waving delightedly at the crowd and wondering where the wedding cake is hiding.
I’m sure no one else noticed, and I know that people would tell me I looked great. And in the red dress, I did. You won’t get me to admit anything positive about the pink Maui disaster, so don’t bother trying. The bride was lovely and that is what matters.
I have a pair of Spanx, and I know what they can do. But I hate wearing them, especially in 85 humid Hawaii degrees, and opted to forgo the foundation for both weddings. I thought it better to let my midsection go commando, as it were, than to risk being caught pulling at the “foundation garment” to restore blood flow to my thighs. To my eternal regret.
So, when in doubt, ladies, wear the damn Spanx. A few hours of discomfort is far preferable to an eternity of poochiness on the living room wall.