When You’re Asked To Be a Spanx Helper, You Help

trE

This was not my calling, but I was called anyway.

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It was a humid Sunday morning, and I was washing my hands at the sink in the women’s bathroom of my then church. A fellow usher/acquaintance came thundering through the door.

Her glasses were tilted slightly, her forehead had several beads of sweat congregating on it like the people in the pews of the sanctuary. She huffed and puffed and nearly blew the walls down, and then loudly said to me . . .

“Tre, girl!!! Help me!”

Before I could respond, this acquaintance lifted up her form-fitting black dress to her hips and tugged at a modern-day corset that seemed to be making its way down a path it was not supposed to go.

I stood there for a few seconds with wet hands, perplexed by this human who was exasperated and waiting for my assistance. I quickly dried my hands.

This was new territory for me. So many questions were running through my mind. What do I do? Where do I start? Should we just remove this thing altogether?! Why is she even asking me for help?!

So, I did what any nervously questioning human being would do. I slowly stepped behind her and said, “What do I do?”

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She began pulling her dress up even further and then called instructions out to me military style. This isn’t the kind of company I’d normally keep and at this intimate level of care, I worried that I was going to do something wrong.

“Pull the Spanx down, while I shimmy out of it.” Everything floated through my highly anointed yet VERY bisexual mind as I listened to this attractive woman in obvious discomfort instruct me on how to remove a conflicted piece of clothing from her voluptuous and striking body.

DO WHAT?! YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?!

I coughed to signal nervousness and then cleared my throat. “You want me to do what now, Jewel?!”

“Pull it down while I try to shimmy free. But don’t pull at it hard, pull slowly. Be gentle. Don’t tear the sides.”

UM . . .

This was my first real encounter with Spanx. The way my brain works is I began wondering why she put this God-forsaken thing on in the first place. Let your curves be free, love . . . is what I truly wanted to say. But she was wearing a form-fitting black dress, in church, during the summer months, and maybe there was something beneficial I didn’t know about to this torture.

I tugged at what felt like leather hide for minutes while she wiggled her hips feverishly to escape the clutches of the manufactured bone-crushing fabric. What seemed like forever, but was probably more like five minutes later, she was free.

She pushed her glasses perfectly on her nose, smoothed her dress down, tidied up her bun, folded the Spanx up and slapped them in her purse, then called to me . . . “Ooh, Tre! Girl, you are a lifesaver! Thank you!”

I shook my head in total disbelief but I didn’t want to be rude. “Cool beans, Jewel. You’re most welcome.”

After she left the bathroom, I washed my hands again, stared at the mirror, and said to myself, “What in the world just happened?”

A fellow usher/acquaintance was being tortured by a piece of clothing, and well . . . it was my calling to help.

*Names changed for the purposes of privacy and respect.

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