The other day I put on a dress I hadn't worn in about two years.

It fit — but as my mom would point out later, it used to fit a little better. Meaning, the dress was now gripping to my hips for dear life.

How could that be? I run. I surf. I don't eat french fries every day (anymore).

I'd like to blame age — it's one perk of getting older — or the shrinking magic powers of clothes dryers. Either way, I had to do something.

Like any gainfully employed woman with a daily planner and automatic bill payments, I decided to find the quickest, easiest, less strenuous way to lose those extra pounds.

I got Spanx.

Well, let's just say, Spanx got me.

These footless body-shaping pantyhose have become a cultural phenomenon, thanks to Oprah Winfrey, who dubbed these one of her "favorite things" in 2000, and the insecurities of women worldwide. Everyone from Beyoncé to Tim Gunn has touted the wonders of these slimming undergarments. It was worth a shot.

So I headed to Nordstrom to find this quick fix that didn't require a running diary or result in wild mood swings.

As if it weren't embarrassing enough to admit you need Spanx, the merchandising of the products only broadcast your insecurities: Power Panties, Super Control, Hide & Sleek. I could've died.

So I grabbed a box of aptly named Tight-End Tights in a size A — the company doesn't make an "almost B but hopeful" size — and tore out before being spotted by someone who'd likely put this on Facebook.

I had high hopes: the Web site says these tights would give you "an end worthy of its own cheering section." (It was certainly big enough.)

But just trying on these tights was an experience in torture and humility.

To say Tight-End Tights are tight is a painful understatement. It was like squeezing into a tourniquet.

Sure, the tights smoothed out the bulges. But I completely lost everything that made me female: the hips, the curves, the waist. I was a cylinder with legs. Not to mention, I couldn't breathe.

How was this fun, again?

I may have looked slimmer and eliminated what the company calls VPL (or visible panty lines). But I doubt I could've sat through dinner — I'd pass out from holding my breath — let alone eat anything for fear that one bite of cheesecake would cause an explosion of nylon and Spandex.

I stood in my bathroom, wondering if this new shape was really me.

Well, I thought to myself, I can't eat, I can barely breathe — and I can't even laugh about it.

So I ripped it off and pulled on a comfy pair of pajama pants, worn and baggy, and perfect for lounging on the couch with a good book and a glass of moscato d'asti. And instantly, I felt better.

I kept the Spanx, though. Because taking them off was the most liberating experience of my life. And I'd like to remember that.

Catherine E. Toth is a former Advertiser staff writer who now works as a Spanx-less journalism instructor at Kapi'olani Community College. Read her blog, The Daily Dish, at http://dailydish.honadvblogs.com.

Reach Catherine E. Toth at ctoth@honoluluadvertiser.com. Read her daily blog at blogs.honoluluadvertiser.com.