So I’m reading the New Yorker today instead of writing like I should have been and the next thing I know I’m online ordering a new bra. The article I was reading in The New Yorker was about Sara Blakely, fax machine salesperson & stand up comic turned entrepreneur. Blakely created the Spanx line back in 2000 with footless pantyhose and a belief that gravity and jiggling can be defied. And before even finishing the article, I had succumbed. I ordered a black bra from Spanx (free delivery, woo hoo!)
I’m trying to understand how I got got. I consider myself a savvy consumer, not prone to the seduction of advertising. Maybe I let my guard down because it was an article, not an ad. It was The New Yorker, not an infomercial, right? But sometimes the line between ads and content seems as thin as the promise of slender thighs in a pair of Spanx Skinny Britches. Or maybe the writing in The New Yorker is just that good.
If we roll backward from me pushing the “Send” button on the Spanx website, there’s a valid (though vanity-inspired) thought process at play. We’ve all heard of Spanx, seen the stuff in stores. We all have hopes of beauty and flat stomachs. We all know about Newtons’ Law of Gravity. (When I say, “we,” I mean me and you are free to include yourself if you want.) I turn 44 in a couple of weeks and I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, I’m at a happy point in my life. I’ve explored the working world and am now back to housewife-who-writes status. I have a bunch of projects I’m working on and I get to pick my girls up from school. On the other hand, I’m hitting my mid-forties and still discovering that there’s no turning back. It’s a little shocking to me that I’m not in my 20′s anymore or ever again. But mostly, I’m content with where I am and who I am.
Still, there’s the little matter of gravity to contend with and this is where Spanx comes in. Have you ever thought that the perfect bra truly exists? I admit to my superficiality and make excuses for it. I’m fighting gravity and using all the resources I can lay hands on. So if Sara Blakely’s magic is good enough for The New Yorker, it’s good enough for me. Or at least it might be. I took the free shipping so I won’t know how things are shaping up until sometime next week. Don’t look for a review of my new purchase on these pages. I’m not in the reviewing business, at least not yet. However, if Blakely wants to send me any free stuff, I might slip in a mention of the divine unmentionables.
