On a sticky bra and paper panties

We ladies will endure cruel and unusual punishment to make ourselves look better.  I mean sometimes our quests for perfection are just shy of water boarding and other torture techniques. 

Last week in preparation for my attendance at a gala, I experienced the ultimate (and probably needless) Self Torture.


T-A-N-N-I-N-G.
I’ve tried it all.

In preparations for weddings, galas, trips to the beach, etc.

Tanning beds = Where I am sure I fried my insides and ovaries.

Booths that auto-spray you = Where I came out looking like a taller version of an Oompa Loompa.

Tanning lotions = Can you say freakish streaks?

Recently, I flopped down a gazillion dollars for a professional to spray me so that I had an even base, no orange streaks and a natural glow.  
Picture the tanning stations for the cast of Dancing with the Stars.  
It was that kind of professional.
I have naturally olive skin.
I was brave and ordered the medium tan.  As opposed to the light tan or the over-the-top dark tan. 
What I didn’t realize is that I would have to stand there in paper panties while she sprayed me. 
Paper THONG panties to be exact. 
With the string up the line of demarcation (the CRACK ATTACK).
How mortifying.
I mean really. 
Who needs their arse sprayed any way?  Not me. 
Needless, I got an even tan.
It was supposed to last 7-10 days.
20 minutes after this embarrassing escapade I was happy.
I felt more confident.
Because after all, tan fat is better than white fat. 
Especially when you stuff yourself into that LBD (Little Black Dress).
The tan – it lasted about 24 hours.
By the time I arrived at the gala on Saturday evening, you couldn’t even tell I was tan.
$50 washed down the drain. 
Literally.
I abided by their instructions.
I waited hours and hours before showering.  
I lost it all.

But my quest for perfection (err scratch that), bump in self confidence didn’t end there.
I needed under the dress firming and shaping.
My month back at the gym and yoga wasn’t cutting it.
Obviously, the back-up support team was called in.
Enter SPANX and a sticky bra.
Enter a credit card whipping.
$40 for a fake bra with Gorilla Glue like stick appeal. 
The bra was a lifter and shaper without the back hook. 
Therefore you can imagine the amount of glue needed to hold up the girls.
Now, enter in SPANX. 
And another $38.
By 8PM the evening of the gala I couldn’t feel my core.  I couldn’t finish my dinner because there was nowhere for it to go.
My breathing was increasingly difficult throughout the evening.
All this for no reward.
I went stag.
I met no new Mr. Potential.
And I couldn’t breath.
The wad of cash dropped on under garments was ridiculous.
The pain of removing the sticky bra at the end of the night was not exactly pleasurable.

I’ll do it all over again for an upcoming wedding in April.
This time, I’ll be getting the DARK spray tan.
And hope it lasts.
Otherwise, bye-bye $50.