"Life's too short to walk around sucking your gut in while pretending tofu tastes good."
Some days, your intuition whispers, "Mate, maybe don't," and you ignore it. Other days, it screams, "ABORT MISSION!" And yet, you press on. Because confidence. Because delusion. Because this time it'll be different, right?
It all kicked off on a Saturday arvo. I had a beachside wedding to attend, very Gold Coast glam. Think linen suits, sunset cocktails, and one hell of a silk dress I bought online in a moment of bravery (or madness). It arrived two sizes too small and three levels too clingy. I knew I needed reinforcements.
Enter: The Waist Trainer.
This thing came rolled up like a yoga mat. Black, industrial-strength spandex, with hooks that looked like they belonged on a ship's anchor chain. The packaging promised "an instant hourglass." What it should've said was "an instant trip to the ER."
First attempt? Fail. Second attempt? Sweating bullets. Third attempt? I laid flat on the floor, sucked in air like a Hoover, and shimmied like a lizard on hot sand.
Eventually, it locked in. I couldn't breathe, but I looked phenomenal. Waist: snatched. Posture: regal. Confidence: dangerously inflated.
I rocked up to the wedding like the final contestant on The Bachelor. People turned heads. My bestie Jess whispered, "You look stunning!" I nodded, trying not to pass out.
Then came the food.
God bless Australian wedding catering. Mini pies, sliders, halloumi skewers, cocktails with mint sprigs so fresh they slapped you back. I reached for a bite of arancini and felt it. A twinge. Not emotional but a real physica twinge.
My waist trainer was not here for digestion. I was one bite away from total internal shutdown.
But I'd committed. I smiled through it. Took a dainty sip of Prosecco.
Big mistake.
Gas. Pressure. Internal revolt. My stomach said, "You want elegance? I'll give you flatulence."
I waddled to the loo like a penguin wearing stilts. In the cubicle, I tried to unzip the dress. It wouldn't budge. The waist trainer was wedged in so tight it could've been welded to my ribcage.
And then, it snapped. A brutal twang! like a slingshot.
I screamed. Quietly. British-level panic. You know the type.
After several deep breaths and a near religious experience, I peeled the thing off. I stood there, staring at it, crumpled on the tiles like a crime scene.
And I laughed.
Proper belly laugh. Bent over. Unrestrained. A girl in the next stall giggled, "Been there, love."
I walked back out to the reception, slightly puffier but infinitely freer. I danced like a woman unshackled from medieval undergarments. I ate like I hadn't been fed in weeks. And when someone tried to compliment my waistline, I said, "Cheers... but tonight, it's all personality."
Whoever said becoming snatched was easy...
Anyhow! I did learn something from this...
We take life way too seriously sometimes.
We tuck, cinch, smooth, and squeeze ourselves into versions we think are more acceptable. More attractive. More worthy of attention.
But real joy lives in the undone. In the laughs that snort. In the pants that button without blackmail. In the moments you let go, let loose, and actually live.
Don't wait until you're gasping for air in a public toilet to realise this.
Release the pressure. Be the version of yourself that eats the cheese platter and still dances barefoot.
Because the waist trainer might snap, but so will you, if you're constantly trying to shrink yourself into someone else's ideal.
And honestly? You're bloody brilliant the way you are.
Now go on, treat yourself to that lamington.
You've earned it.