Love and Lycra

A unskinny mirror, fluro lights, white goose pimply flesh, a tear-stained face, unhelpful assistants, destroyed soul, yep you guessed it I went tog shopping.

I love lycra. I have loved it since I saw Effie on Aerobics Oz style doing low impact lunges in a high impact cutaway tard. I love it so much I spend every Saturday afternoon encased in it.  My most treasured belongings are my custom-made snake-skin unitard,  my ‘sculptured to my body’ tuxedotard,  my collection of vintage leotards,  my industrial strength fish nets and the 3 pairs of fat sucking, lump removing beige goodness that is the dance tight.    I am a lycra clad dance machine!

Last Thursday my love affair turned sour. Lycra betrayed me.

After all I have done.

I gave five good years of my life for the advancement of this wonder fabric. I mean give me a pink frilled gtard teamed with electric blue tights and a leopard print belt I am unstoppable. I strut, pout I put it out;  I sashay the streets knowing my arse is cupped by that supportive weave. 

My dance troupe has been responsible for the dramatic increase in sales of second hand leotards in the lower North Island of NZ for god’s sake!   We championed that brand. 

So this betrayal is all the more hard to bear.

I am going sailing for a year and I wanted a good friend along for the ride, a fabric I could trust to make me look bitchin hot.

But in that changing room the respect went. I tried on 50 pairs of togs. I tried togs with underwire, togs without underwire, togs with halter necks, togs with sweepy fabric over problem areas,  togs with built in support, togs with jazzy straps,  admittedly I drew the line at togs with skirts and all I got was a stark reminder of how fickle love can be, thrown back at me in the mirror.

Sure I have had a baby and things are not quite as firm and perky as they once were but  out of 50 pairs of togs ONE could have made me want to fist punch the air! 

Frankly, I expected more.  There was no support, no cupping of arse cheeks, not lifting and separating, no wobble removal weave. Nothing. Just pinching, squishing, biting lycra.

But I am not one to be defeated. The sweetest form of revenge is happiness and all that, so I wiped away my tears,  kicked aside the giant pile of broken dreams, marched out of the shop and began a new love affair -with a Berkini.


Aruba here I come.

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7 Responses to Love and Lycra

  1. Tiff says:

    Well, this is just not flipping good enough Bitch Mistress. I think we need to make it the troupe’s mission to find you some bitchin hot togs!!!!

  2. anna says:

    you might need to try Eres swimwear. Mighty fine togs but sadly with a mighty fine price tag-worth every penny though. But why not just go naked? Your in the middle of the bloody ocean anyway-who’s looking?

  3. Lily says:

    doing my pelvic floors now cos I almost wet myself when I saw the Berkini!

  4. Rachael King says:

    You need this website for vintage inspired tog goodness! I have the polka dot halter and it’s dreamy.

  5. Mary says:

    I still have the holy grail of togs you once gave me. Do you want them back?

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