I felt a pair of eyes on my pants while I was working out today. No, nobody was checking out my goods. Lower. Keep going, but stop before the knee. What's there that's so interesting? Apparently the pinch from my Spanx shorts. Crap. Leave it to a gay man to spot a fashion foible!
Yes, I wear Spanx at the gym. I also wear mascara and really, it's a little surprising I'm not in full drag make-up with a glass of champagne since that's how I roll at home. (See exhibits everything.) It's not like there's anyone to impress. Hello, I live in a gayborhood and my gym is populated with dudes, sympathetic moms and the occasional tunnel-vision power lifter. They're the ones drinking all the Muscle Milk.
Spanx are just part of my skin. They're like a hug that makes your pants fit better. I'm so glad they were invented. If I would have lived in Victorian times, I would have gotten my ribs removed and worn a corset to the workhouse. I probably would have eaten tapeworms and powdered my wig just to sling ale in a flash house. Come to think of it, if it weren't for the consumption, I would have owned the Victorian Era. See, look at me work this wig:
Back to the Spanx.
What's wrong with wearing Spanx to the gym anyway? Aren't you there because you care about how you look in the first place? I mean, if you really don't care how you are perceived, you could just roll around in a bag of potato chips with Nutella all over your face while shouting whatever insult you happen to think of. I HATE MY NEIGHBOR'S WEEDS! MY HUSBAND SMELLS LIKE GARLIC! Etcetera. That's no way to be.
I say err on the side of caution and wear Spanx to the gym.