Don't Spanx Me: My Journey Through Killer Undies

So there I was in the to-die-for black marble bathroom of a swanky $2 million Los Angeles penthouse condo owned by a very famous fashionista. He had a fabulous new book deal and needed a ghostwriter.

There was a not-so-fashionable twist.

He had an odd way of auditioning writers and it involved underwear. Earlier in the week, one of his several brow beaten assistants called to ask what size of Spanx I could comfortably shimmy my five decade bod into…. without hospitalization.

"XL," I responded without taking a breath. 

"We'll see," fashionista assistant said, sniffled and hung up. (Was she crying? Was he yelling in the background!)?

I didn't have time to figure it out because I had bigger issues.

We'll see….what did that mean? Was that a fashion thing? Or was it an ominous warning that soon I might need a lower body transplant?

SPANX-D AND SWEATING

A few days later, I met the man I'll call Fashion Boy in his tony, Los Angeles high rise where young Hollywood also dwells. Lindsay was a neighbor. So was Charlie. He shook my hand, clicked on Whitney Houston's Greatest Hits. Really! I was going to try on underwear to the backbeat of I'm Every Woman?

Dancing around the room and singing along, he handed me a bag of undies from Bloomingdales in New York. Yes, he was famous enough to have his audition "drawers" shipped to him via Fed X.

He did a full body scan of me that was better than any airport X-ray machine. Glancing with disgust at my size 10 frame (criminal in his fashion circles), he cringed twice and said, "I'd rather show you what I do with fashion than tell you. You'll be my model and I think I even have some clothes that will fit you. But first, squeeze yourself into some body shapers. It will….help."

First things first.

The outdoor temp was about 95 during a strange LA heat wave.  Fashion Boy was mega rich, but also cheap – like so many people in Hollywood – who spend $250 on lunch at the Four Seasons, but refuse life's other creature comforts. Basically, Fashion Boy refused to put on the air-conditioning although he lived on the sweltering 25^thfloor.

Sauna doesn't begin to cover it.

"Go, go, go," he instructed, pointing to the guest bathroom where I was supposed to discover my inner thin-a-tude.

"Are you done yet?" he barked from another room.

An actual two minutes had passed.

Short of full body lipo, I wouldn't be done for hours. Days. Weeks. Years.  In fact, there I was in his very tastefully decorated, black marble vault of a bathroom trying to squeeze – and I mean rip – these body shapers on. The shapers gave up their will to live around my knees.

Remember the immortal words of Rocky Balboa, I just wanted to go the distance. Sweat pouring from my brow, I continued to yank, rip, pull and pray as I tried to compress my thighs into submission and suck my liver closer to my kidneys.

Tags were flying everywhere – that is, the ones not stuck to my hips and thighs. That's when I noticed one of the pairs of panties cost $65! Wow...that was a lot of money and...

"Don't rip the tags off!" Fashion Boy bellowed from the other room. "I plan to return those to the store."

Sadly, a pile of dead tags was now on the plush bathroom rug.

And wait, he was returning them. Ewwwww. 

Now, here's a twist even worse than used undies: He purposely told his assistants to buy the undergarments in the wrong size. I asked for XL. He demanded size medium…as motivation.

Why be so cruel?

"You said XL. I thought the struggle of these garments would prove to you that you needed to start a diet on Monday. Fashion is an attitude. A thin attitude," he sniffed. Then, I kid you not, he went out and got us Starbucks. It was a gigantic milk shake drink for him with extra whip. He got me a small black coffee, which was served with a smug smile. 

HELP (AND SANITY) IS ON THE WAY

Obviously, unlike his mentor Whitney, he wasn't the champion of every woman. Most of America – and certainly a lot of us over 40 – aren't size 2's even with the help of some Spanx – and we can still look damn good. Even one of my favorite celeb interviews Nia Vardalos told me, "If you see me looking really skinny in a dress, hello Spanx!"

I went to one of my favorite fashion experts Lindsay Hillyard for some tips on how to actually find fab undergarments that don't compromise your spleen.

"First, you should find a great undergarment," she advises. "You really should use these as a tool, but here's a tip. I'd advise any client not to get the bra-attached-to-the-underwear Spanx.

"Get a great bra that fits your cups and separate Spanx," she says. "If you want a really smooth line, get Spanx that fit right under your chest. It should suck you while you're still breathing!"

What about a smooth head-to-body look for longer, form fitting dresses?

"You want to get longer Spanx shorts that hit you right above the knee up to your chest plus a separate bra. That will really smooth you down," she says.

Lindsay says that if you're wearing a material "that shows every little ripple" then "choose a thicker Lycra body shaper."

AND AS FOR MY FASHIONISTA

In the end, I didn't do Fashion Boy's book because life is just too short. I did keep the $65 pair of panties, which just followed me home. Frankly, I didn't have the energy to peel them off at his place…without getting heat stroke.

The shaper and I learned to live together. I lost a size and they gave up a seam or two.

Just like your body issues, it's all about compromise.

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