by W. Lee Kincy
It's happened. My tummy control step-ins (panties . . . Yes, panties!) have betrayed me. I bought them at a reknown chain so the price would fit my pocketbook the way I'd hoped the lingerie would fit my frame. Wrong. When I got home, I proudly took them from the plastic bag and layered them on top of my existing scarred and battered undergarments. On the morrow, I entered my lavatory with an anticipatory air. I stepped into the shower and leisurely lathered with almond scented soap. After that, I squirted mango shaving gel into my palms and slathered it along my legs before grabbing my double-bladed razor. I poured strawberry shampoo onto my head and after rinsing, rubbed apple conditioner all through my tresses. After the shower, I patted (Yes, patted!) dry, and slathered on papaya cream. Then, with increasing hunger (for some unknown reason) and sensuality, I focused on my new undies. I picked them up and plucked off the tags. As I started to glide the satiny drawers over my morning flatasitsgoingtoget stomach, there was a catch . . . literally. I had struck to the plan. My freshly scented and seasoned skin seemed to peacefully accept the new bloomers only until they reached upper thigh high. Feeling unusually bound, I felt frantically at the seams to see if I had overlooked a packaging staple that might render the underwear three sizes to small. Of course, this entire process was hampered by the presence of a bathroom mirror the size of a retaining wall. With urgency increasing with each glance, I grabbed the triple stitched side seams and tugged. For one fabulous moment I stood and looked down at my substantially flatter abdomen. The super sewn in front diamond placket commanded my flab to cease and decrease. I patted my stomach like I was congratulating it on its accomplishment. Then, willingly, trustingly, I looked in the mirror. The duplicity was apparent. What once was below was now above. Cleaving to my waistline was a mass of excess. For years it had complacently waited inside my briefs while I gained and lost, gained and lost five to fifty pounds. (Babies, middle age, menopause . . . you know.) Now, harshly, unprepared, it had been cast out and into full alarming view. To top it off (Pun intended!), it joined with the small amount of extra that already adhered to my waist and together they ballooned into a fleshy "spare tire", a term I had innocently hoped would apply only to my husband. What to do? What to do? I decided to be analytical. I turned and faced the mirror and absorbed the first shock wave from the frontal view. Then, in full command, I pirouetted slowly. From the side, the stomach flattened like slightly rounded slate, and a smooth line ran from just below the tire to the tailbone. Not bad. No dimples were evident either. I decided that they had been squished to midriff or were plastered to my internal organs. Oh, well . . . I donned my loose, over-the-bottom-end-and-to-the-thigh blouse that accommodated my carefree image and walked out of the bathroom and into the world, a flat-stomached, thick-waisted woman with the undeniable knowledge that . . . I am blessed.
W. Lee Kincy's work has appeared
in the Southeast Missourian, The Vindicator, Sweetgum Notes, and other publications.
Copyright © 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.