Can't Touch This

I recently invested in my first pair of "control" knickers. A high waisted, beige monstrosity that promised to suck it all in to reveal a Gwyneth Paltrow-esque waistline. I tried them on in the David Jones lingerie department and they did indeed flatten my stomach, although my organs were severely compromised to the point where my kidneys were making out.

However, for the sake of my brand new (and incredibly unforgiving) organic cotton t-shirt dress from The Corner Shop, I swiped my credit card and the beige horrors came home with me.

I'll admit, when I went out I looked pretty fabulous. I couldn't sit down and there was no way a drink would fit inside my newly arranged organs, but I was willing to suffer for fashion. Now, I have read Bridget Jones' Diary, I saw the movie, I knew I was to avoid any activity of a sexual nature for fear of revealing my passion killers. Now this was ok, Mr Dress was away and I wasn't planning on any nude action. But noone told me that I WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO KISS ANYONE HELLO.

At a party, the obligatory kiss, or even air kiss is usually paired with a brief touch of the waist or a delightful little 3 second cuddle. I proceeded to do so upon arrival, congratulating myself on my sassy little outfit and supermodel figure (ok, more like catalogue model at 5 feet 4, but hey, the camera would love me). By the fifth meet and greet, I realised I was getting a couple of odd little smirks from the ladies, and scared confusion from the boys. I excused myself to the bathroom, perhaps my fushcia MAC girl about town lipstick was on my teeth? Did I go overboard with the Coco Mademoiselle? Alas, everything seemed in order. I brushed it off as party arrival paranoia and moved back into the midst. I grabbed a glass of champagne, albeit for posing purposes only, and mingled like a pro.

A close girlfriend arrived soon after and as we hadn't seen each other for, oh, at least 2 days, we had a bit of a squeal and a cuddle. Halfway through the cuddle, she withdrew in horror. "What the hell have you got on?".

"Oh, isn't it cute? It's my new t-shirt dress. It's organic, you know."

"Erm, no, what the hell do you have on underneath?"

"Oh I got some of those control knickers, to avoid any love handle action."

"Well it feels like you're made of concrete. It's kind of disgusting." - yeah she's not the most tactful of girls.

And then I realised. The womanly smirks were explanations of "Ha! I knew your stomach wasn't that flat." And the confused boys were thinking "What's wrong with her body? Make it stop! Make it stop!". I spent the rest of the night avoiding everyone. I thought I would try and offer my hand in manner of Jane Austen characters, but this didn't go down too well either. After an hour or so of not speaking to anyone, not drinking and not sitting, I admitted defeat, went home, took off the dress, laughed at my reflection in the mirror, put on my pajamas and watched The Hills.

So yes, control underwear may make you look spectacular visually, a perfect hourglass of womanly perfection. But to the touch, your body feels like you are encased in steel. It's scary and freakish and really not the impression you want to make.

Unless you are J.Lo and have a "Don't touch, don't look me in the eye" policy, buy the next size up, hit the gym or make mumu's your signature.

*Image courtesy of www.zodee.com.au