Muffin tops, noun: Irresistibly attractive yet widely misunderstood "dunes of delight" that can be found nestled above the waistbands of virtually every woman of healthy weight in the continental United States. (At least, the ones you would want to be friends with.) The presence of muffin tops has been positively correlated with such attributes as superior intellect, exquisite fashion sensibility, and shiny, manageable hair. Named for the portion of a muffin that bulges over the top of a muffin pan during baking, it is said that some muffin tops actually do emit the aroma of freshly baked bread.Still, I'm following the social norm of watching Hollywood middle aged women age by kicking and screaming and picked up a few ideas short of the extremes like tummy tuck, liposuction or limiting my carbs. Spanx has crossed my mind and I even saw a package of one kind or another at a boutique shop and gasped at the price tag. $50 could buy me roughly 3 and a half pairs of "Mom Jeans" from a clearance rack. Although that would hide my muffin top, I have faith that zippers are getting longer than Brittany Spears 2 inch pair of pants 15 years ago. I don't want Mom Jeans, yet. Well, maybe a little bit.
What I found was a wonder camisole at Costco. It roughly squishes the muffin top and/or redistributes the excess resulting in a much smoother muffin top, rather than the muffin top that spills over the top of my bottoms. This came in handy one Sunday when the shirt I chose to wear with a skirt was too tight to be worn without a
Putting this piece of clothing on my body required the basic skills of wiggling into a sports bra then tugging the bottom part over the offending body area. The perks consist of the fact that, once pulled down, the garment does not roll and stays securely in place, slightly limiting my lung capacity (note: not as much as a whale boned lined corset of which I am grateful). Also, unlike the sports bra, the uniboob was less noticeable as the upper part of the camisole was not triple reinforced like the bottom part.
Once my acrobatics of wiggling into my camisole was complete and I finished dressing, my family went to church. Sometime during church, I looked over at my 17 year old. She looked very tired. Not surprising since she came home from her band (last) competition at 3:30 that morning. I leaned over and mentioned she'd either been crying or she was very tired. She answered me by bursting into tears. Well, then. I took her home where she joined me in my bedroom with a box of tissues, blanket and her sweet self while lamenting the end of her meaningful life (marching band season).
Since we were home, I figured I could get comfortable. Crossing my arms, I grabbed the bottom part of my shirt and pulled it off myself, inside out, throwing it on the bed. The teenager continued talking, crying, and lamenting.
Next up was the wonder camisole. I crossed my arms again, grabbed the bottom of the camisole and pulled it upward. It rolled up at this point and got stuck under my boobs. This required a few more acrobatics than I was used to. I pulled, tugged, stretched and succeeded to move the roll of fabric under my armpits and neck. More wiggling resulted in a few scant inches progress but my arms were now stuck over my head and my mouth was covered. The teenager was still talking and crying.
I threw myself on the bed and tried to use the friction to pull it further up. No luck. I tried wiggling it back down so I could breathe through my nose. Again, no luck. Finally, I had to interrupt the emotional tirade. I was stuck, my arms over my head, laying on the bed I muffled out, "I need help."
With all of her muscle, she grabbed the offending camisole and pulled while I tried to slip out of the clothing and onto the floor from the bed. It was ungraceful, humiliating, and should have been caught on tape. On the upside, my muffin top is back and I will wear it proudly under my bulky sweaters until springtime. Then I don't know what I'll do. Be assured then, by the presence of my dunes of delight, that my superior intellect, beauty, and shiny, manageable hair marks me as one of the Chosen Ones. And you want to be my friend.
How's your Muffin Top? Don't have one? Ahhh. You're not Chosen. Bummer for you.