Spanx you very much

I'm going to be frank.  Being a woman can sometimes blow.  When I have to run down a set of stairs, I usually have to hang onto the girls so I don't knock myself into unconsciousness, or give myself a nose bleed.  Every few weeks I practically have to strap on a feedbag so I don't die from the hunger pangs, and then the only thing I can wear that doesn't cut off my circulation is my Snuggie and a pair of sweatpants.  On top of all of the "perks" that women have to deal with, we're expected to primp, pluck, dye, wax, pencil in, or erase out.  And because it's not socially acceptable to walk around town in a backwards bathrobe, and lumps are frowned upon, "scientists", aka-some dude- invented a contraption that smooths you down, and sucks the life from you.  It's called 'Spanx'.  What it really should be called is an "Extra thick sausage casing that will squeeze the air out of your lungs, give you a case of swass and swoobs, and prevent you from sitting, bending, breathing, and eating. But hey, it helps smooth down that awesome case of muffin top." I figure they chose 'Spanx' because it was easier to fit on the label. 
Now let me paint you a little picture.  It was a balmy summer day, and I had to wear an ensemble that required a few smoke and mirrors. And spandex.  So before I put on my LBD, I had to do what 98% of American women do.  I pulled out the pulleys and cranes, and attempted to pull up a nude colored onesie that promised to cast my muffin top, good day.  I guess I should've waited until the steam cleared from the shower, because I soon found myself in a "Chinese finger cuffs" situation.  You know, you get one body part in, but find yourself at a standstill because nothing else is going in, and nothing else is coming out.  So then you do what any rational individual does in a situation where you are stuck in lady shape-wear.  You panic.  You yank and pull and cry and sweat.  And then you realize that sweating just makes things even more immobile, which only makes you panic even more.  The only thought that is racing through my head is, "For the love of God, if I have to call the Fire Department and tell them that I am stuck in a pair of lady underpants  that go all the way up to my second chin, I will die of embarrassment first."  And then it dawned on me.  My husband was home.  This man has seen me at my best, at my worst, and now stuck in something that only someone doing the Tour De France should wear. 
So take a bit of advice, if you're ever in need of a smoother rump, bust out the nude colored biker shorts.  But do yourself a favor, either do it in frigid temperatures, or make sure you have a pair of meat sheers handy in case you have to cut yourself out of a sticky (or life squeezing) situation. :)