Alas. I spotted you across a crowded Wal-Mart, and I knew at first glance you could handle the girth awaiting you.
You served me well, oh satin-front friend, helping me create the mirage of a waist, keeping flapping butt cheeks in check and poor posture on point. (I know on most days those poor hook-and-eye closures were screaming for mercy.)
You didn’t judge me based on my past, either. I was damaged goods. The trail of men who had known me well were endless: Mr. Goodbar, Hershey’s, Reese’s and the worse of them all, Lay’s, his bag of tricks were oh so many (Darn that sour cream and onion).
You stayed true even after I strayed temporarily with those Spanx, who, by the way, can’t hold a candle to you.
But alas, I want to breathe freely, to stop enabling bad behavior because I have you to fall back on. I don’t want to have to cringe each time someone goes to hug me for fear their fingers will scale the skeletal frame hiding underneath. (It’s not a smile people, it’s oxygen deprivation.) And, let’s not even mention those races to the potty: saying a prayer and holding my breath while I claw my way to freedom in a tiny bathroom stall. (Ah, memories)
So, dear friend, I need to stand on my own – to shed my extra belly and the like. I’m giving you notice: starting today, your days are numbered.