Doing the Nancy Ganz Dance

Nancy Ganz. A range of women’s shapewear, swimwear and plus size clothing is an ideal mix of comfort and style for all seasons.

Girls, we know what that means.

The suck-it-in underwear.

I’ve always been a bit slack when it comes to suck-it-in underwear. I’ll buy quality cotton knickers, take a good look and as long as there is no VPL (visible panty line) I’m good to go. However, recent months of eating out quite a lot has meant the scale has risen from a reasonably respectable number to the words GET OFF. And then to GET OFF. NOW.


I attended a charity event recently. It promised to be a pretty swish event, and being the well prepared girl that I am, I  had bought a rather pretty, girly fitted dress for the occasion.  I knew that no matter what undies I put on, VPL *was* going to be an issue  so, under advisement of a gorgeous  friend who is always well dressed and rather stunning, I set off to purchase the recommended undergarments. “Nancy Ganz”, she said, “are the ant’s pants”. And she patted her gorgeous little figure. “See?”

Next thing I know, I am standing in the change room trying to wriggle myself into iron clad elastic.

So, let’s take a minute to discuss Nancy Ganz versus control underwear.

Nancy Ganz are no ordinary undergarments.

They are not for the faint of heart.

These are the Iron Lady of underwear.  The resistance in the elastic in these is akin to bench pressing twice your bodyweight with equal back pressure. Have you ever tried to force cat jaws open in order to get one to take medication?  Yeah, that. Include the scratching and writhing.

The bottom of the pant starts  just on the lower thigh. The top ends somewhere up high and although this image doesn’t show it, to avoid a muffin top under the bra roll you  are supposed to tuck the top of the elastic tube under the bra strap.

The overall effect is mean to make you look like this.

Pretty impressive, huh?

On the big night, I don my pretty new dress, add some sparklies, apply war paint and tame the locks. And heading out the door, I give one quick, last look in the mirror to make sure that everything is where it should be. Yes, indeed – smug as a mug in a fug, I slip on my dancing shoes and head out with my new bestie, Nancy.

Nancy and I had a fine old time settling in, sipping champagne cocktails and supping on canapés. Oh, how we glided gracefully through the first hour, confident and secure.  And as long as I didn’t try any sudden bending, all was wonderful. And  all that sipping and supping leads to a wonderful little champagne buzz which leads to more champagne which eventually leads to a rather pressing need to.. well.. excuse oneself to powder one’s nose.

And here I learned yet another lesson in fashion.

Getting them on, at home, in the comfort of your bedroom is one thing.

Getting them OFF, or at least down to your ankles, and then back UP again, in a cubicle space the size of a telephone booth, is another.  With one leg braced on the loo, my back pressed up against the door and my handbag between my teeth me and Nancy inched our way precariously past last week’s pasta, November’s cheesecake and last October’s dalliance with a Camembert wheel and some Prosecco.  When we got to the point of reaching the 40+ something aging milk ducts, we realised we needed to powder our nose again.  Have ever tried to tuck something under the back of your bra strap without assistance? Whilst tipsy? And on heels?
Good luck with that.  Let me just say, I was no longer looking – or feeling – very glamorous.

Which is why I may – or may not – have spent the rest of the evening commando style.

I’ll never tell.