I am the queen of embarrassing myself. So it is my duty to share with you my #TMI on this rather bleak Tuesday to make you smile. Whether it’s farting so loud I wake myself out of a dead sleep next to an intergalactically hot girl, falling off a VIP couch while twerking (then into an ice bucket, then onto the dance floor), or getting my prosthetic arm stuck to a stripper pole, I am a walking embarrassment.
My best guess is that it’s the universe’s way of keeping me in check. I am either OBSESSED with myself or in a devastatingly intense, obsessive self-loathing spiral. I operate in extremes, and karma, or whatever the hell it is, balances out both ends of the narcissist spectrum. If I try to be sexy, it inevitably bites me in the ass. It’s like the universe can sense me getting a *little* too cocky, and needs to put this bitch in her place.
So, anyway, I have these latex pants.
See video above. I wish that could be the memory of my precious latex pants. But no. What sticks out in my mind is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to me. EVER.
It all started as an innocent birthday party. I turned 25 two weeks ago.
I was, in typical I-either-loathe-myself-or-obsess-over-myself fashion, crying all over my apartment and insisting I cancel my long-awaited birthday party because I am so fat and ugly.
“I don’t want my college friends to see I’ve gained weight!” I bemoaned to my very patient girlfriend. “They only see me on Instagram and think I’m 15 pounds lighter!”
“You are gorgeous,” she attempted to convince me for the millionth time.
“So you agree? You think I got big?” I responded.
“No, but if you think you did, then I want you to feel happy,” she said.
“WHAT?” I was practically foaming at the mouth. “SO YOU’RE SAYING I’M OBESE?”
This went on for another hour (and will continue for our entire lives).
I was just about ready to google DIY liposuction when I saw them. My latex pants, staring at me from within the depths of my closet. The pants I’ve felt sexiest in. The pants I ordered from some cheap, fast-fashion Insta-hoe boutique that doesn’t offer sizes above a 10. The pants that give me superficial validation. I was sure they’d be too small, but the masochist in me said just try them on…
After a shit ton of hoisting, jumping, and sucking in, they were on. I was shook. Vindicated. Feeling good. Sure, I couldn’t breathe, but my ass looked like a mylar balloon. My thighs looked thick and shiny. I pulled them up high enough to camouflage a muffin top. I looked hot. My girlfriend was equally as shook. She looked at me with such desire that I realized how much I’ve been dressing like a slob. I forgot her looking at me like that and how sexy it makes me feel. I looked in the mirror and felt intensely sexual. I liked myself. Crazy how cheap pants can make you change from feeling like a fat cow to a sex goddess.
I clipped in my 26-inch hair extensions, strapped my pedicured feet into teetering black platform sandals, adhered tiny pink and silver rhinestones all over my forehead and around my eyes. (It’s my birthday, I’ll be extra if I want to.) Walking slowly and carefully, I worried for a brief moment about the pants ripping. Because I’m used to my life being comically inconvenient, and my ass being inconveniently fat, I stuffed a black dress into my knock-off Chanel quilted red leather bag. Just in case. By the time I got outside, aside from wanting to die because I was wearing latex pants in 95-degree weather, I felt ready to slay.
First up was the fabulously macabre bar House of Wax.
As I slugged back Belvedere martinis and checked out all the disturbing death masks and wax figures (if you’re twisted like me, this is your bar), my confidence soared. We ordered truffle popcorn and buffalo cauliflower. More martinis. My fabulous hot lesbian friends showed up with their fabulous hot lesbian friends. Alcohol and excitement numbed me to how tight my pants were, and I felt comfortable, obnoxiously flashing my girlfriend’s camera, and sprawling out on my friends’ laps. I took about two thousand selfies, sucking in my cheeks and scooping together my boobs. Every time I caught a glimpse of the pants in the reflection of the glass cases filled with dead-baby wax sculptures and examples of face syphilis, I thought, goddamn I am sexy. I flirted with our waitress. I sat up a little taller. I made sex eyes at my girlfriend. I was positively obsessed with myself.
As we left House of Wax and walked to the elevator, I felt like I was oozing sex. Here I am, I thought, strutting with my gaggle of friends. It’s my birthday and I’m beautiful and I’m ready to drink more and shake my ass. I thought it would be this cute, fun, sexy thing if I bent all the way over and made a show out of pressing the elevator button. As I dipped low, I was met with a chorus of, “DAYNA!”
Hell yeah, you want more, ladies? I bent even further down and shook my ass violently. I was already calculating the bend and snap I’d do to stand back up. I stared at the clear elevator doors, feeling pleased with myself. I probably look so hot right now. I hope my girlfriend knows me well enough to be filming this for Instagram. My ass is the eighth wonder of the world.
“DAYNA!” my ears kept ringing. I guessed they were cheering me on. I bent lower. “DAYNA!” They started to sound a hell of a lot more shocked and concerned rather than entertained and turned on. What the f*ck?
“DAYNA,” my girlfriend’s voice filled the air, stern. I stood upright. I whipped around to see my friends, huddled close, looking embarrassed for me. One girl I hardly knew looked respectfully to the ground.
“There’s a hole in your pants, bitch!” my gay BFF tactfully informed me.
It took me a minute to process this information. After all, I had just thought I was doing the world’s hottest thing and giving everyone a show. Now it was slowly setting in that the show involved more than I anticipated. My drunk-AF brain was slow to catch on that my group of hot lesbian friends, plus hot lesbians I had just met, all saw my exposed asshole. I wasn’t wearing panties.
I can usually laugh at myself immediately; after all, self-deprecation is how I make a living. But I felt tears well up in my eyes. Not only had something flat-out humiliating happened to me — it confirmed that my pants were, indeed, too small and I had, indeed, gained weight.
“Oh my god, oh my GOD, I’m killing myself. I have to kill myself immediately.” At first, I talked about it nonstop. Made every joke possible. Loudly, performatively lamented about it as we looked for our Uber.
“Excuse me, sir? We’re not going to the bar anymore. I have to go home so I can just kill myself really quick before the party,” I said, climbing into the SUV. I felt my pants rip even more.
“WHY didn’t I wax? WHY didn’t I at least wear a thong? Was my ass pale?” I pestered my group of hysterical friends.
“No, I even got a little turned on,” one sweet little lez insisted. My brain roared, SHE’S LYING. SHE THINKS YOU’RE DISGUSTING AND SO IS YOUR ASSHOLE.
“Seriously, Dayna, it was funny, calm down,” my girlfriend assured me. Doesn’t she know NOT to tell a woman who just exposed her ASSHOLE in PUBLIC to CALM DOWN?
Then I went into defensive bitch mode. I quietly sulked about it the entire Uber ride. Then I went in full-blown five-year-old mode and insisted I miss my own birthday party and go home.
“But you have your dress,” my girlfriend continued, “just put it on.”
The thing was, I didn’t want to change into my dress. Changing into my spare dress would mean admitting defeat. The pants won. My fat won. I also still, even in my defeated, devastatingly embarrassed state, thought I looked hot in the pants. The latex was undeniably sexier than my boring t-shirt dress.
We arrived at the next bar, and I stomped out of the car. The hole got bigger.
“It’s no big deal, baby, you can barely even see it,” she went on.
“STOP, I just want to go home. Just take me f*cking home,” I snapped at her, in front of everyone, as if I hadn’t embarrassed myself enough in front of this group.
She pushed me into Mood Ring, my fave Bushwick bar where the rest of my friends were waiting. I greeted everyone with a puss on my face.
“I ripped my pants and showed everyone my bare asshole,” I said, deadpan, to my group of friends hanging out in a velvet booth. They already had shots waiting for me on the table. “So I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not, idiot,” my high school BFF stated matter-of-factly, pouring a shot into my mouth.
So I stayed. I fought off my burning self-hatred, humiliation, and crankiness and started to have a good time. I walked proudly and unabashedly around with my bare butt cheeks exposed. Assless chaps are so in right now, I’m basically a fashion pioneer, I told anyone who would listen.
I was back on the other end of the constant see-saw that is my self-esteem. The drunker I got, the funnier and funnier it became. I had my group of friends roaring with laughter and I continued my drunken rendition of what happened. It got increasingly dramatic with every tequila shot.
As I type this, eating my boring-ass nuts and boring-ass fruit and sipping my boring-ass apple cider vinegar (supposedly it cuts fat?) I am brought back to why I’m putting myself through this diet torture: because I split my favorite latex pants. In front of a group of hot lesbians. I literally had to take a break from writing this to order another pair of latex pants, this time in the next size, before I could even fathom the lesson I learned from this painful experience. Even the promise of new, untainted, non-ripped, actually-my-size latex pants can’t erase my bare ass in the Brooklyn wind. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because I learned that you survive this shit: embarrassment can’t kill you. Life is funny AF. Buy pants in your size. And get a full Brazilian wax if you plan on bending over in latex.