Being short and more rounded than waif-like, I have on several occasions attempted to control my torso with tummy-taming undergarments.
I'm not talking corsets here - they are at least associated with lace, ribbons, glamour and a wee bit of naughtiness. No, I'm talking rubbery flesh-coloured creations that should never see the light of day.
Let me warn you now, none of them do what it says on the label. The ones that masquerade as knickers simply squeeze the wobbly bits upwards, so you have a flatter tum, but a generous muffin-top just around waist-level. Now, the manufacturers have catered for this. They'll sell you a wrappy-up-thing that goes from your hips to your bra-line, squeezing the wobblies further north.
That just means the wave of extra personage overflows at about underarm level. There's also just a teeny little design fault. There's nothing holding the wrappy-up-thing, um, up. So partway through your evening the thing will roll down, liberating your wobbly bits and adding an interesting extra wee roll in your waistline.
You can, however, get all-in-one control undies. These come in undies-to-bra-line all the way through to knees-to-chest if you want. If you want everything squeezed down to knee-level and then bulging out to make mega-knees, that is. But not if you want to breathe. Or bend over to put your shoes on. Or go to the toilet.
There's a challenge. It's hard enough getting into the squeezy garments without the trauma of getting out of them for a toilet stop, then back into them again. If you see a well dressed and coiffed woman enter a cubicle, hear unseemly grunting, groaning, huffing and puffing and she emerges dishevelled, one high heel broken, her dress torn and with a black eye, don't bother looking for an assailant, she's just been doing battle with her foundation garment.
The last time I waged warfare on the wobbly bits was to look my best for my uncle's wedding. I had learned from previous mistakes and this time I figured I had it sorted. Instead of succumbing to the false promises of shapewear, I would take the minimalist approach - the gentle cling of control-top pantyhose.
It worked well. Once I'd spent the requisite 10 minutes squeezing into them I was pleased. No over-roll, no bulgy knees, but strong enough that when I shook my booty on the dance floor, my booty would stop shaking when I was no longer dancing.
All good then. Until I had to take a trip to the ladies' room. With great confidence I closed the cubicle door and went to whip down the pantyhose ... and let out a shriek, a groan and some swearwords. No. I hadn't been assaulted. The pantyhose had resolutely refused to be whipped down and I had badly sprained my thumb. It's really hard to drum up sympathy for a thumb injured by a pair of control-top pantyhose.
So I say, if next season you're invited to take part in Dancing with the Stars, let it all hang out on the dance floor. And beware of Stephano's eyebrows. I swear they are trying to get the presenter's role.
-Rachel Wise is a lifestyle block owner and community newspapers editor.
-Linda Hall is on leave. Her column will return next week.
