Crime doesn’t pay. It also occasionally hurts.

Sometimes I take things that don’t belong to me, which I suppose makes me an occasional thief, but I only take things I know have either been thrown away or I’m absolutely sure are about to be thrown away, which makes me more of a dumpster diver than a thief.

For example, a few months after my son and his girlfriend broke up, I found a brand new article of clothing of hers stuck in a box of stuff she’d left behind in their apartment. I thought about returning it, but since she’d taken off for parts unknown, that wouldn’t be easy. So I decided to keep it for myself. 

What was it? A black shaper cami. One of those garments shown on infomercials featuring a slightly chunky gal putting on the shaper and lo and behold! Suddenly she can get those tight blue jeans on again without having the dreaded muffin top.  

Of course, everyone knows shapers used to be called girdles and before that they were known as corsets and before that they were most likely known as torture devices, but I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was thinking about how much I’d always wanted a shaper and how now I had one. 

I’d toyed with getting a shaper over the years, but, unlike me, those things aren’t cheap. Besides, I wasn’t all that sure they worked. After all, how likely is it that a lifestyle devoted to potato chips and cheap wine can be wiped out by a garment made out of stretch fabric?

But finding my son’s ex’s shaper was like manna—or at least a girdle—from heaven. Now I too would have a svelte figure with my muffin top banished to wherever the shaper was about to send it.

“Who cares?” I asked myself the morning I had decreed Shaper Day as I allowed myself a little extra butter on my toast. Those buttery calories weren’t going to show up under my sweater. Uh-huh. Not today. 

After getting dressed, I noticed the shaper fit quite snugly, which meant it was doing its job. I also noticed my jeans did button more easily and there were no traces of any kind of muffin under my top. This was certainly a vast improvement over counting every stinking little calorie and walking the dogs five times a day. 

It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I noticed I appeared to be being squeezed to death. Everything from my neck to my hips felt like it was in a vice and made me feel like that scene in Star Wars where Luke Skywalker and Han Solo were trapped in that giant trash compacter that kept getting smaller and smaller and smaller.  

I tried walking around to see if that would help. It didn’t. Then I tried tugging on the shaper that seemed to have morphed into a cobra. Tugging didn’t help either. I thought about taking it off, but I was at work, and I didn’t want to explode into the Sta Puft Marshmallow woman in public. We all know how cruel co-workers can be. 

So I suffered silently until I got home where I wriggled out of the shaper and threw it in the garbage where it belonged. 

The entire incident made me think about how silly women of all ages can be over a tiny little thing like being shaped like a muffin and how we spend far too much of our lives trying to be something we aren’t.  

It also made me remember something a gym teacher once told our class which was, “If you want to lose weight, you’re going to have to give up something you like, ladies.”

Point taken. Next time it won’t be my lung capacity or my internal organs. Next time it will be potato chips. And possibly no longer taking things that weren’t mine to begin with. But not the cheap wine. A girl has to draw the line somewhere. 

One thought on “Crime doesn’t pay. It also occasionally hurts.

  1. WordPress won’t allow me to sign in and make comments. I’ve probably exceeded my authorization for sarcasm again. Or my account was deleted for lack of use.

    I gave up some things I don’t like. I don’t know that “not playing with jellyfish” or “not eating Rutabagas” would help me lose weight… but why chance it?

    >

    Like

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