Who ever would have dreamed that the string bean that stood 5’8” tall and weighed 105 pounds would eventually need a binding torturous apparatus commonly known as the “jiggly fat binder,” or girdle? The advertisements rave about this contraption’s ability to instantly shed ten pounds off of your physique. Sheds is not the appropriate word—force the fat into your core so that it squashes into the gaps of your intestines is the appropriate description—but who would buy it if they used that as the selling point?
Anyway, three kids by the age of twenty-two did not diminish my figure, nor did a devastating divorce and depression. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell happened, but I do know that this twig turned into a log slowly over time and I am resisting going to a carver to get it back to a slender but curvier me.
Oh, I look good! The magical pants, these classy red boots and a stylish red top...Oh, the men are turning their heads and the women are even complimenting my look. I am walking tall and my head is held so high the oxygen is thin. The strut of my walk says it all. But the girdle is so worth the tightening pain, and besides, the pain is easing due to my circulation being cut off around my hips.
One thing about being a teacher is that you have little to no time to use the restroom, and when you do get the chance you usually run for it. Now, imagine my ever-expanding bladder being pushed in by the girdle, a pair of hose and, for good measure, a sexy pair of panties. (I had to wear sexy panties to not feel like a grandma in the girdle; the hose, well…it is winter.) So I’m speeding down the hall in a fast strut, nodding, “Yes, thank you” and “Oh, I like these pants too, thanks,” all the while trying to absorb the compliments but knowing I have to get into the restroom—fast.
The teachers’ lounge is in sight, and thank goodness there is a stall available in the bathroom. Pull down the magical pants, pull down the girdle and the hose and Ah! Ah! Ah! between the shocking waves of pinching pain and great release of the bladder, I am now so happy to be peeing. Ah, but still the magical pants are worth peeling back several layers of clothing. Wait...the pants, the girdle, and then the Oh my gosh the hose but not the panties! How did I forget to remove the panties? I peed through the panties! What the hell? What am I going to do? I have one more class to teach! I can’t keep on urine-soaked panties!
This stall is tiny, my elbows hold up each wall and my face is pressed into the stall door. How can I get my boots, the hose, the girdle and the pants off to remove my sexy, red, urine-soaked satin diaper? How? I have two minutes (at the most) before my students return to the room. I can never get those things off and then squeeze back in before the bell—the ominous bell.
I start to yank and tear at the panties—damn it, they are expensive, but these babies have to come off. I try to tear at them, stretching them across my legs. No luck; they are only stretched out. H-m-m-m. If I step on them then pull, it may tear them apart. So I am sitting on the pot, girdle, hose and pants around my ankles. I pull the panties down, step on them and rise up, pulling on the red elastic band.