wind. just wind.

guten tag!

as per usual, it has been a hot fucking minute since i’ve posted anything that could be construed as mildly amusing. i come to you today (on a 12 hour work day with no customers to talk to) with a topic that you will not only find out of character, but also slightly irritating. any takers? could it be about the ever so popular police brutality, or perhaps the ongoing hatred of a ms. kardashian’s “black face” photoset? shall i revisit the time i hashed out how both rose AND jack could have fit on the door? i still find that it plagues me. worst movie ending, ever.

moving on.

let’s talk about body shaming.

the popular trend of waist training has swept the pinterest boards and instagrams of women everywhere. whether they be impressionable young women who think that “bae” is an ok thing to say or simply the thirty-something female reminiscing about her former figure before her 3 bratty children ruined her body, it seems to have made a comeback. back in the day, corsets were a common item you might find in a lady’s boudoir. unlike the vibrating phallus companions that we have to designate an entire drawer to (let’s be real. not everyone washes their portable johnsons after each use, so keeping the residual lube in one space is mandatory). losing my train of thought. and we’re back, thank you stacy.

i am a woman of reason, so i say (ever so cliche. that rhymed) to each her own. not everyone gets to have tits and ass coupled with a 20 inch waist. in fact, no one does. this is a ridiculous image that only exists with the alteration of one’s natural composition. fuck you victoria’s secret angels. we all hate you. don’t tell alesandra with the last name that sounds like a salad you bring to a barbeque. i still love her.

and we’re live.

ANYWAY, i recently stumbled into the practice. you see, what had happened was…my friend had purchased one for herself. what had also happened was was that she did not use her brain to decipher which size she should get. in short, she did all the legwork and i got a waist trainer.

act one: scene you’ve got to be kidding me, only a 5 year old can close this damn thing shut. PULL HARDER

in retrospect, it was on upside down. so my internal lady bits and hips were severely compressed and i lasted an hour. mind you, this was the trial run anyway to see if i was remotely thin enough to get all clipped in.

step one: have hope.

step two: lose hope.

step three: gain determination.

step four: fuck this shit.

step five: i’m almost there. it can’t be that bad.

step six: ah, i’m in!

step seven: *takes in a variety of tiny breaths to adjust to being suffocated*

step eight: how long am i supposed to wear this?

step nine: 3 minutes and 40 seconds left

step ten: but i look so good, maybe i’ll keep it on for another hour.

5 minutes later you’re in the biggest sweatpants and are forcing your boyfriend to rub your belly. your organs have shifted back into their comfort zone and you dread the next day.

act two: scene getting slightly addicted to your fake waistline.

day two wasn’t so bad at all. i made it through 4 pole up the ass hours (you have NO choice but to sit up straight and use your expired ballet abs) and felt mild discomfort. they say “if it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.” pretty sure that discomfort and the rearranging of your rib cage and internal organs will be painful no matter what. this saying is dumb and i think we should abolish it. you will be uncomfortable. side note: you will not want to eat whilst you are inflicting this torture upon yourself, so losing those extra inches may not be such a far shot. this is what i keep telling myself.

intermission: personally, i believe that it yields results. i follow a certain somebody who has the same body build that i do, just with ginormous tatas, and the results of her training leave me simply drooling. so why not give it a shot?

act three: scene never want to take it off despite the lack of oxygen

about a week into my training and suddenly i’ve turned into gollum. i count down the hours until i’m free, but when the time comes i find myself making excuses to stay in it longer. it’s true that the longer you’re in it, the more difference you can make. that’s logical, right? anyway. you stand in front of the mirror ogling at your curves, debating on whether or not it’s actually worth it to feel normal.

it’s not.

still in it.


i wants it. i needs it. i must have the 23 inch waist. ok 20. how tight does this thing take me?

disclaimer: here’s where i get to the point that made me want to write this is in the first place.

the whole “love yourself” movement that literally everyone has been clinging to has changed (or at least it’s trying to, good luck polishing a turd) the way that people see beauty. “your beauty is not defined by your weight or your blah blah blah.” women, in particular, have latched on to this trend and are hating on the shamers. the shamers being the men and the supermodels. what i have discovered in this past week is that men…..get this……ohhhhh man this is good…..wait for it…..actually, really, truly do not give a shit. if you have a vagina and it smells nice, i think you’re going to be ok. just don’t have a lot of cats ok?

let me tell you something, the hypocrisy level is TOO DAMN HIGH. for women to urge their fellow bleeders to be comfortable in their own shape, but to encourage this practice makes zero sense. the few female friends i have are all for it, curious even. they are encouraging me to continue (mostly because i think they’re using me as the experimental rat). my male coworkers, friends, and boyfriend are all questioning me. “but why? you’re already thin and have a great figure.”

i’m baffled, you’d think it would the opposite, wouldn’t you? not to say that my friends are in the wrong, no one is. but still.

act four(?) end scene. i plan to keep up the training and see if i can’t have my dream waistline. god did not bless me with budding basoomas, he decided to put them both into my lower region. brief summary of my experience so far: i feel more confident in the trainer, and yes i am becoming codependent on it. judge me.