Several weeks ago I did something I’ve never done before. I bought a pair of Spanx.
In case you aren’t familiar with them, the Spanx undergarment is the modern-day equivalent of the girdle, repackaged with a cute name and without the medieval metal hooks. They come in all sizes and lengths, so you can theoretically sculpt your unruly female torso into any shape you like, using only the sheer unrelenting force of fabric.
Belly too protuberant? There a Spanx for that. Rear assets too jiggly? There’s a Spanx for that. And in the case of both, well, there’s a Spanx for that, too.
Interestingly, what motivated me to buy the Spanx was an invitation to a party thrown in my honor to celebrate the upcoming publication of my book, “The Body Tourist.” This is a memoir which takes an unflinching look at the aftereffects of anorexia nervosa, at the lingering issues of food and weight mismanagement and the myriad conflicts and compulsions that are endemic to it, most of which center around the attempt to rein in your body. Are you starting to see the irony here?
I bought the Spanx (I told myself) to camouflage my little problem of post-menopausal bloating which in any given week can range from cosmetically and psychically minor with relatively little pain, to cosmetically and psychically excruciating with lots of pain. This constant flux I monitor with the laser-focus attention of an air traffic controller (which, my husband might ever-so-gently suggest, possibly exacerbates the condition).