Now, I should have known something wasn’t right when the company name ended with a Z but I’m not one to stifle creativity. I mean really, this blog is called Hoodwrites so I can’t judge.
For the last few months every time I logged onto social media there was a video of a woman shimmying into one of these contraptions. Kudos for making her thicker in shape, thus more relatable to me. Truly, I could see myself in the video. And with weddings upon weddings in my immediate future, I gave in.
Call me a sheep because, bah.
But before hitting the purchase button I did my homework.
I read the reviews, followed the sizing chart (ordering a size up as suggested) and gave them $100+ dollars of money confident this piece of space aged lycra would do for me what it’s claimed to have done for so many others.
After reminding them to send it to me, I came home to a package at the front door. Excited about this, I ripped my pants off (not unusual) and stepped into the infamous Waist Shaperz.
The first alarm went off when the material was unbelievably tight at my knees. Shameless plug: While I’m thicker in the middle and on the sides, my knees (and legs) are fairly small. Working the material up my thighs, I ignored the profuse sweating this workout caused by standing in front of my fan. Finally to my hips, I channeled my inner Shakira hoping rhythm was the key bringing it home.
How about, no.
Out of breath and losing self-confidence I was in no position to spare, I found the floor and rolled to my back thinking the material just needed time.
Time to what?
I do not fucking know.
Actually, I was just a hot sweaty mess and needed a breather.
Back upright, I grunt and curse only to realize this was it. This was as far as the lycra went. End of the road…
Which meant the zipper was on one side of my waist while the fastener was on the other. Looking down at myself what startled me wasn’t the four miles of flesh still uncovered.
It was the enormous hole between my legs that exposed my vagina. I learned the hard way two years ago that ladies should never wear compression ANYTHING where the vagina is left to its own devices.
Think on that for a moment, I’ll wait…
So now I’m not only sweating, stuffed into a sausage casing staring at my protruding vagina, I knew in my gut that was also protruding that I couldn’t get back out unassisted.
I needed help.
I needed the Lord.
I also needed to lie down before I passed out so I made my way back to the floor. Lying there trying to recall the simple life before gravity, I attempted to roll the material down only to fail. It was now a part of me like cellulite and coffee stains. Doing an ab curl to sit up, I looked back down at my vagina wondering how it could resemble a can of biscuits that sat out too long before opening the package. I didn’t even have my phone handy and all I could think was, “I can’t die like this.”
Cue in my twenty-year-old daughter who walked in on me staring at my crotch, briefly giving me a once before over asking in a bored tone, “Why?”
“Turn around,” I told her. “You’re too young to process this.”
(Shit, I was too young to process this.)
“You need help,” she insists.
(And for the record, I sure as hell did.)
“I need my dignity and some baby powder.”
“You need scissors and a glass of wine.”
(She was not wrong. I’ve raised a wise child. Seriously, don’t bash millennials.)
Leaving me to it, I eventually found my way out of my Waistshaperz wondering what in the hell just happened. Asking myself how did the terror escalate so quickly? The disappointment was heavy, covering my body like the product was supposed to and I was pissed that I actually felt the need to try again. Because you know, second times a charm…
The website offers a sizing guide. Great, very helpful. When you open the ‘sizing guide’-you choose your height and weight and POOF-size recommendation. It’s like Jesus was one-clicking for me.
So, I followed it.
And nearly died of suffocation and shame because of it.
According to the experts, I required a medium. However, to be safe, I ordered a large. Based on the tragedy that just took place on my floor where my sweat outline resides; I would argue I needed a much larger size judging by the product sent to me. Does that actual size on the tag matter if the product fits and makes me feel better about myself?
Yes and no.
It really depends on the person.
In my defense, I hate shopping for clothes on a good day when in one store I’m an 8 and in another a 12. For me, it’s not the number. It’s the inconsistency. I never know what in the hell I’m trying on. I don’t possess the patience for guess work. (Don’t even get me started on the ‘cold shoulder’ craze. I’m still not over it.)
Truth: the humans at Waistshaperz are onto something. Because with the proper (realistic) sizing these body/compression/suits could be revolutionary.
My unsolicited recommendations are:
- Don’t advertise the beautiful Camila and forget to mention while her love oven is covered, mine won’t be. Maybe point out in bold print that my hoo-hoo will be blowing in the wind like a flapping flag on a windy day.
2. Work on the sizing. Hire a size-scientist. That’s a thing right?
3. Remember to actually ship the product. I needed this ‘before’ the weddings. Not six years and two divorces after it.
And, 4. If the customer is going to front you $133.00 for the product, consider including a free voucher for therapy.
Will I return my Waistshaperz for a different size? Yes. I’m no quitter AND I believe in second chances. Like I said, this product has serious potential. The added glory hole even has my dirty mind wandering with what if’s and should I’s?
Plus, if it can make this 41-year-old look 39 for a few hours? Hell yes, I’ll give her another go.
Because in the shaping game I’ve got:
Ladies, I would never steer you wrong.
But, I DO take recommendations. If you found the Holy Grail of Shapewear, PLEASE share your wisdom. (Pictures appreciated)
But until the replacement arrives…
All my love and lycra,