Linking up with Free Write Fridayy today!

The theme is:

Y’all. In this post I am going to somehow tie together elasticized undergarments to my relationship with Jesus.

If this doesn’t merit a Best Blogger Award I just dunno…

Anyhow.

Recently I was signing my book at a really Important Book Signing Event. And yes, I know I keep talking about this, like over and over, but to be honest this whole thing is totally consuming mah LIFE, I tell you. I am a Big Deal! I am super Excited! I am certainly too Famous for cleaning the cat box! If I keep posting about it perhaps the small counterparts in my family might agree!

So far, it’s not worked. I still have to feed them. Needy varmints.

And I know, with the Five Minute Friday theme and all, I should really go for a super spiritual post. But as you know… IF THERE IS A SPANX STORY, IT MUST BE TOLD. And, for reals, it was the first thing I thought of when I thought… “Freedom!”

Well, that and Braveheart. But then he kinda morphed into someone wearing Spanx and shouting in his Scottish accent and it got a bit weird from there.

So, the Spanx story:

As you might know, I purchased a dress for The Big Important Signing. A bit later, whilst journeying through the Cute Money Sucker known as Target, I spied these:

Ok. It was a DIVINE moment, I thought. I mean, it says, RIGHT ON THE PACKAGING, “Super HIGHER POWER” !!

I grabbed a pack, and clutched it to my sagging body, the crinkly packaging told me sweetly that I could “Live the Dream.” I wasn’t quite sure what the context was – like if I wore them I could finally, finally be asked to sing back up for Gwen Stefani?

Perhaps. But it’s also possible they would just make me feel all confident and non-lumpy for the Very Important Signing.

I bought ’em.

And then, the morning of the signing, I put them on. This in itself is an amazing undertaking. It takes a lot of flexibility and upper body strength to get these suckers on, friends. Also, a lot of grunting and a few moments of claustrophobic panic, but I talked myself through it. Who needs yoga class? We could just put on Spanx every morning.

And BAMMO! They were ON!

I was LIVING THE DREAM!

Ok, let me interject here with one small red flag. The women on the cover of the packaging? They’re, like, CARTOON women. And thus, they are not actually REAL. And also, it seems to me, they are already pretty svelte and possibly, just maybe, THEIR CARTOON WORLDS DON’T REALLY NEED SPANXS IN THE FIRST PLACE BECAUSE THEY’RE LIKE TINY.

So all this living of the dream crap lasted until about twenty minutes later when the Spanx started to want some freeeeeeedom! (Insert Scottish voice for the Spanx from hereon. Makes it more dramatic.) And since the elastic fabric of these guys seem to be possessed with its own sentient abilities – the Spanx started on its master plan of escape. “Listen, you eejit!” said the Spanx. “It’s high time I’ll be takin my leave! Blar blar blar!!”

They started to travel south.

Here I am, all professional, calm and collected, signing books and being so very famous, and at the same time, my undergarments are duking it out, all Scottish style, with my stomach and lower-down lady-bits.

And by that I mean: the Spanx were sloooooooooooowwwwwwwly rolllllllllinnnnnnng down. By painful, strangling inches, the evil torture device headed south every time I moved.

My first thought was: Just don’t move. Just sit as still as a frightened bunny and maybe the Spanx will take pity on you. This plan didn’t really sit well (get it. GET IT. You see that, don’t you?) with trying to be convivial and chatty and, you know, NOT WEIRD, when signing books.

So for a bit, I just tried to accept the Spanx. I serenity prayed at them. I surrendered to the Spanx. “God, grant me the serenity,” I breathed with the last bit of squashed oxygen in me, “To accept that I cannot change out of these…”

But then, I took courage into my own hands, and excused myself from my table and sorta lurched to the bathroom.

It was there that I removed the Spanx. With a lot of grunting and a few choice adjectives, I de-suctioned them. Not an easy feat in a small stall with a lot of rather curious writer-types around. Writer-types have very vivid imaginations, so I dread to think what they were conjuring up in their fertile minds with all this thumping and cursing and “Just OFF! Get OFFA me!  You’re evil! EVIL!!” emanating from my stall.

And then, I did kinda a dumb thing.

(You might want to interject here with, “Just NOW?” which I will allow. I get it.)

The Spanx finally made it to the floor in a beige, defeated heap. I stood, gasping above them. Triumphant. “Demonic SPAWN,” I hissed. And then I kicked them.

Now, it seems Spanx are made out of VERY elastic material. Did you know this? Which also, it seems, makes them kinda boomerangey. Because it was the kicking thing that caught one part of them in my shoe and then they sorta twanged loose and SHOT RIGHT OUTTA THE STALL LIKE FORTY FEET ACROSS THE ROOM.

I then came out of the stall, picked up the Spanx (I SWEAR it kinda growled at me), dropped it in the trash, washed my hands, smoothed my hair, and did my best, so sophisticated walk out of there. So what if it was lunch time and the bathroom was packed with fifty women in shock and awe who had just witnessed a Spanx beat down?

I was free. FREE!!!!!

I could BREATHE, y’all. Breathing is so awesome. SO completely necessary for ones serenity!

So, I pranced it back to the signing table. No, I didn’t just prance, I did my best model STRUT back to the table, friends, to the soundtrack of “I’m Too Sexy for my Spanx”.

And spent the rest of the afternoon, saggy but happy, with my devoted fans. All four of them.

Jesus loves me, this I know. He loves me, even with the foldy bits and the endless neuroses. He loves me enough to say:

“You know? You are beautiful. And I have to tell you. Spanx are from the devil.”