In Which I Butcher My Pants

Postnatal exercise is all very well. But when you’ve got a night out with your NCT girls coming up- as I did, last weekend- then you need a quick fix. And when it comes to quick fixes, there is only one thing that will work.

Head to your nearest department store. Locate the lingerie department. Walk past the wispy lace panties. Leave behind the silk satin thongs. Bid adieu to those scrappy little suspender belts. Say au revoir to anything frilly, frivolous and fun. Keep walking (for it is always right at the back) to the section labelled “Shapewear”. This is your world now, and you must learn to navigate it.

There are things here that look like torture devices. There are things that I can’t even begin to figure out. There are things that words can’t describe. But all I basically want is a pair of knickers with a wide “control” waistband that will squash and flatten everything down and make me look like someone who hasn’t just been pregnant for nine months. The control panties are arranged in three columns; one labelled “Light Control”, another “Medium Control” and the third “Firm Control.” I go straight for the firm; there’s no point messing about.

They are flesh coloured, and hideous, obviously. But the waistband feels reassuringly tight when I stick my hands in and try to stretch it. So far, so good. I glance at the price tag. £45.00! For a pair of pants! I resist the urge to hang them back up. I take them to the till, telling myself they’ll be worth every penny if they work.

I haven’t left myself any margin for error, as the night out (cool restaurant, swanky cocktail bar) is happening that very night. By the time I’ve applied the necessary amount of make-up and have battled my hair into some kind of submission, I have exactly nine minutes until my taxi is due to arrive. Off come the pyjama shorts. On go the fat pants. With the tags ripped off, obvs.

I look at the front. It’s all pretty impressive. The flesh-coloured waistband has whittled my waist into something approaching an hourglass shape and the front control panel feels like it’s doing what it should. So far, so awesome. Until I turn around and gasp in horror. Everyone gets a bit of VPL from time to time, but this is on a whole new level. Each butt cheek is perfectly cut in half and under a tight dress, my bottom will look very strange indeed.

I pull them down. But now the waistband doesn’t work cover my abdomen and I have a hideous muffin top. I pull them up again. The VPL returns. I have five minutes to go. Shit, shit, shit.

I could take them off and put a normal pair of pants on, of course. But from the front everything is fine and letting it all hang out isn’t an option. There’s really only one thing I can do. I grab a big pair of scissors from the kitchen. And I convert the short-style back to a thong-style back. In other words-  I’m just going to say it-  I cut the arse out of my pants.

I put them back on. They look terrible of course, but once my dress is on over the top, everything looks fine. Well, better than usual, anyway.

Ironically, a few days later I am in Asda and I decide to pick up a £5.00 version of the same as my “spare pair”- can’t afford another £45.00 on knickers. Also, what draws me to these is that they are labelled “No VPL!” which gives me some hope that I may not meet the same pitfall that I did last time. I took them home and tried them on and ladies, I can honestly say, they are bloody fantastic, and they will be getting a lot more wear than my butchered £45.00 pair.

I guess the moral of the story is, when it comes to control panties, expensive isn’t always better, so don’t waste your valuable cocktail money. Go to Asda, grab a cheap pair and go out and party. Because as long as those fat pants are hoisted up around your wobbly bits, you’ll look great.