The Gripper

Spoiler warning: This post contains very girly concepts. If you're likely to break out in a rash at such ickiness, bail out now and come back on Sunday. We'll be posting riveting new ramblings on our favorite Bay Area dim sum restaurant, Loon Wah. It will be much easier on the testosteroney ganglions, I assure you. 

A few years back, I was facing the fashion challenge of being "mother o' the bride" in what was shaping up to be a stinking hot July. I knew I wasn't going to make it through the day in pantyhose. We hates pantyhose. My inner respirator was lodging fair warning of a strike-to-rule union action, and as we all know, it's not nice to fool with your air intake valve. 

Yet, without some shape wear assistance, my dress was going to fall squarely in the category of "too much information." I felt if I could just find something as lightweight as pantyhose with the legs cut off, that would do the trick. Except... I have tried strategic alterations of pantyhose, and it never goes well. In fact, it goes places you had never imagined newly-freed pantyhose could roll themselves in to. 'Nuff said.

Off I went to Macy's "foundational garments" section with grand hopes and a high-limit credit card.

Armed with about 8 different brands, sizes, and control options, I hit the busy dressing room. By the time I had tried on and taken off the first seven items, I had broken a major sweat and had stubbed my toe twice in the "dancing out of tight underpants" routine in the limited floorspace. However, I was willing to give the cause one more shot. Unfortunately, I had left the most robust "control" item to the last.

I'm not prone to anxiety attacks, but by the time I had struggled and squished myself into place, I will confess to a rising level of panic. It was like sticking your head through stair railings: once you got there, the view wasn't as great as you had anticipated, and now you were facing the really tricky part. 

I needed out. Quickly. 

It became apparent that the only way I could successfully liberate myself was to roll the whole shebang off my thighs like a rubber band off a newspaper. The beast came to life, picking up steam as it hit my ankles, whistling off into the corner of the dressing room. After a few jerky death flails, it lay in a four-inch square of unrecognizable spent spandex. I let out a little hysterical bark. The changing room chatter dulled to an alert silence.

I clearly was not going to spend good after-tax dollars on an apparatus that would have been banned by the Geneva Conventions. However, I couldn't bring myself to return the involuted mess to the attendant in its current condition. 

Grabbing what looked like the waist hole with my right hand, I felt for the thigh opening with my left. I got it on the first try, so I gave 'er a good yank and, voila! I wrenched it back into its correct orientation, holding it extended at full arms-length for five seconds so we were both clear as to who had the upper hand. Unfortunately, instead of letting go of the waist opening, the stress of the previous fifteen minutes caused me to lose my head. I let go with my left hand first. The elasticized thigh opening came ricocheting directly towards my face, with the price tag boomeranging around the edge. The stinging impact left me with a gaping wound on my nose. 

Okay, "gaping" might be a stretch, but it was bleeding.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, I started to howl with laughter... in a nervously quiet dressing room. A voice from three cubicles down called out, "What ARE you trying on? I want one!" 

I looked at the offending tag. "It's called 'The Gripper.'" In seconds, one could hardly hear oneself pant for breath over the ensuing snorts and sniggers.

The nose wound has healed, but the emotional scars remain. So... this should explain a lot.