I recently tangled with an undergarment that I will call “Slimz” in order to avoid a possible lawsuit. The creator of this product is one of the very few female billionaires in the world.
For the unenlightened, Slimz magically changes a woman’s shape from sloppy to svelte. Actually, it’s a torture device masquerading as underwear. It relentlessly shapes the body, punching in the gut, circling the fanny, and pushing up minimalistic boobs to the point of lasciviousness. Slimz renders the word “diet” nearly obsolete.
Several years ago, miserable about the fact that I had bulges where they shouldn’t be, and, worse, that I had caused this with self-inflicted wounds such as those caused by brownies and lemon pie, I purchased a Slimz. Should be spelled $limz, believe you me.
When I brought my treasure home, I went up to the bedroom and shoved a dresser in front of the door, blocking it. Invariably, when you don’t want someone to come in, that’s exactly when they do. Feeling safe, I tried it on. Well, I tried to try it on. I started from the top, as one would to put on, say, a T-shirt. No go. It wrapped itself around my head. When it reached my shoulders it produced a force field that prevented movement in any direction. The top of the garment, having trapped my arms in a straight-up position, seemed to be trying to make my cheeks into breasts. By the time I managed to peel it off, I was sweating profusely. Several swatches of my hair went with it.
Unwilling to give up, I decided to step into it. In this instance the words “step into” involved wild hopping about and considerable thrashing on the bed, where I lay helpless as an overturned turtle tugging frantically in a semi-prone struggle. Thirty exhausting minutes later I had actually managed to get the thing around my body – my oxygen-starved body, as it turned out. My face had a slightly bluish cast. I began to panic.
Inch by painful inch I gained ground, tugging, rolling, attempting to shimmy my way to freedom. Finally the garment lay like a punctured inner tube on the bedroom floor. I could swear it was panting. I certainly was.
Fast forward to a week or so ago. I had borrowed a dress to wear to my grandson’s wedding. It was a size small. I am not particularly big, but I am decidedly not small. The dress was lovely, but it spoke of my eating habits and my often lazy abs. Something had to be done.
In a department store lingerie section I spotted a garment that might do the trick. I tried it on. Not too bad, only minimal perspiration and maybe five minutes’ manipulation. It would do nicely. The product was called “Non-fat Dressing.”
I haven’t worn it to the wedding yet, that will be in a few weeks. However, I patiently await the day when Non-fat Dressing passes Slimz in the billionaire department. Clearly there is a desperate need for this sort of thing.
I’m thinking of developing my own product line. If I do, I’ll probably become a trillionaire, because it will come complete with hidden oxygen supply.