There I was, already broken down and ready to confess to anything, ANYTHING, to get me out of the hands of the women molesting me with bra fittings and forced mirror-staring, when the Spanx rep came in. "Oh yes," my manager gushed, "you have to try on all of them, too. You are gonna love these."
In came a parade of grinning women (were they grins of cheer or of delight in my pain? I'll never know), handing me power panties, power bike shorts, a power onesie with (no joke) a slit in the crotch you are somehow supposed to pee through--because there's no way you can get these things up and down your body in under twenty minutes--, power camisoles, power slips, power bras, and power tummy tube tops.
They brought me the flesh-colored pieces instead of the black. I will never forgive them for that. I was wearing black underwear, which showed creepily through the flesh-toned power torture devices, as did every awkwardly compressed bulge of my post-breakup weight gain. My rib cage was forced to contract to a degree that didn't allow me to breathe normally, and I began to feel lightheaded. "Yes, yes, it was me," I wanted to shout. "I planned the attack on the Pentagon singlehandedly." I hoped confession would let me go to a nice warm safe prison, or get me a swift execution; in either case, I'd be free of having to pretend I was comfortable with myriad women checking me out in my power panties.
All this, dear followers, for nine bucks an hour--I wasn't on commission yet. This may be one of the saddest stories the economic collapse has yet produced. It was even worse than whoring, and vastly less lucrative.