Today I had a boxing match with my top. I won a few rounds; my shirt won a few. The officials are still debating who's the winner--they'll get to wear a big fancy belt.
If they determine I'm the winner, make my belt spandex, please.
I think most women know the kind of top I was battling this morning. It has the appearance of being a wrap-around blouse, and has a (usually) contrasting "panel" in front under the deep v-neckline. However, the "panel" is really a tanktop apparatus.
Slinky and slippery, that tanktop was. It's made of lycra or spandex or some flesh-constricting NASA-created material. And it was wily.
I put it on this morning--the first time I had worn it--and initially got the straps of the tank top twisted around. They bunched up in a wad at each shoulder, making me look like Lada Gaga when she was in that weird pointy shoulder protusion phase.
However, once on, that top did not want to come off. It had found a lovely home...plenty of cellulite, some floppy fat rolls. It refused to budge.
After a clever fake-out move on my part (I stood in front of the mirror, patted my tummy and looked at my reflection in mock admiration, then like a panther I pounced on the bottom hem and yanked like my life depended on it...because considering the girdle-like abilities of this shirt, my life did depend on it), I got it off, read the nine-pages of directions, and carefully put it on again. This time, the right way.
Why is it that only women's clothing is complicated?