Trying on my wedding dress would be the ultimate test. A slim column of white satin, it has aged and yellowed after two decades, but its unyielding dimensions haven’t budged. I’ve aged and greyed, had four kids, and my dimensions have stretched and softened. I knew the dress did not fit as recently as last fall, when I pulled it out of its storage bag for the first time to show it to my kids on my anniversary.
Toward the end of my eight-week waist trainer experiment this spring, it dawned on me that the wedding dress would be the definitive word on whether wearing the latex undergarment had effectively pushed my battered post-pregnancy ribs back into place. Even though I thought the waist trainer had creaked my ribcage inward – I felt the sore ache of it too, especially in the initial weeks – the subtle change wasn’t visible, especially not in my Covid-era shorts and tees.
Last fall, I’d stubbornly tried to zip my wedding dress up, so much so that the stitching threatened to break. This time I stepped into the dress and took care inching the side zipper up. Working slowly, I pulled the two sides together as the zipper neared the top. I held my breath and grimaced for a final tug. Then it was done. Fully zipped. Breath released.
Yes, I have gained weight since my wedding 20+ years ago. And no, the dress does not look the same on me now as it did then. But the point is that my ribs are verifiably closed again. Improbably, I’ve reversed the damage of four humans taking turns punching out my ribs during their stay in my uterus. A repair job, if you will. Pretty cool that it worked. …
