…On the Evils of Spandex


They hit me again yesterday: ALL THE REASONS I HATE SPANDEX.


Oh Lillibeth – however will we get you onto the treadmill now?

Usually, my hatred for Spandex (Lycra, elastane) is reserved for those rare moments when I darken the doorway of a gym. There does not exist a single item of workout clothing that does not contain Spandex, and the mere idea of working out gives me a fit of the vapours. (I’m not sure what the vapours are, actually. I don’t think it’s gas, because back in the olden days they used to administer smelling salts to treat it. My best guess is that ladies got the vapours because they were wearing their corsets too tight, and that is precisely how I feel in workout clothing. It’s kind of a combination of claustrophobia and panic.)

Another reason I remember to hate Spandex is when I’m held up in traffic on account of a bicyclist. No matter how lovely the derriere may be in regular clothes, no one’s looks particularly good shrink wrapped in elastane. Hello, OVERSHARE! (And sweat marks… ewwww) And the better the cyclist, the more beef-jerky the haunches. *shudder!*

Yesterday, however, I began to reflect on my elasto-hatred for altogether different reasons.

You see, I was long overdue to clean my chicken coops. Yes, there are two, and I’m ashamed to admit they were both properly rank.


No. Just… no.

Admittedly, I was not dressed to the nines or anything. Coop cleaning for 20 birds after a long and extremely wet winter is quite possibly, apart from dis-impacting the human bowel, the most disgusting job on planet earth. I was, in fact, wearing some old, stretchy, paint-streaked work jeans and a much washed cotton Tee blended with elastane (Spandex) for a little “give” in the bust and a little”take” at the waistline. If the hanger was to be believed 3 years ago when I purchased said Tee, the shirt was meant to employ the precise ratio of modesty to flattery of one’s figure.

Thirty washes later, the elastane content of my T-shirt has decided to make a return to its original form of compressed polymer fibres. In other words, from the moment I put it on, it makes a continuous slow crawl from my hip up to my bra line at the commencement of any movement whatsoever. Strenuous movement. Like breathing.

Since my average time spent in casual clothing consists primarily of cooking, cleaning or sitting at my computer, the time taken for this Tee shirt to shrink up to my ribs is about 15 minutes or so. It’s annoying, but not unbearable.

Yesterday, given that I was bending and stretching, shovelling, scraping, holding my breath and forcing back puke, the chicken-coop-memetime it took for my shirt to climb was reduced to about 30 seconds.

Meanwhile, the Spandex content in my much worn and washed jeans also decided to make a retreat in the direction of my knees, thanks in large part to the pull of my Wellies from the bottom. Well, at least that’s what I tell myself. It’s easier than saying my recently expanded waistline no longer provides the appropriate notch to hold them up…

In any case, between pulling my top down and my bottoms up, this was one flustered Mother Hen!

Oh, did I mention I was was wearing rubber gloves at the time? Because I was shovelling chicken poop? And that it had been wet? Really, really wet…

I may never be clean again.

Mother Hen

© motherhendiaries 2017, all rights reserved.

  • feature photo: Shutterstock – no, people, this is not me! As if…
  • fainting lady:
  • cycle butt:
  • chicken meme:
'We say cock-a-doodle-doo', not 'caca, doo-doo, poo'.'

‘We say cock-a-doodle-doo’, not ‘caca, doo-doo, poo’.’

5 replies »

  1. Loved this article, too funny! “No matter how lovely the derriere may be in regular clothes, no one’s looks particularly good shrink wrapped in elastane.” I’ve NEVER had a cute little derriere so the back roads were what I sought out when riding, hoping that anyone approaching from behind would assume I was a moving billboard and pass by without comment or tossing a brewsky bottle at me. I totally get the shrinking shirt, have them, hate them.


  2. The vapours were a nice way of swooning, which was a means of escape from an unseemly, uncomfortable or undesirable situation. More ladies should try it these days instead of the current rash of brashness that seems to have infected their jeans…um, I mean genes..Now this is the very reason I don’t have any chickens. The only ones who make more mess in captivity would be ducks. We (the hubs) thought it would be awesome to get a DOZEN for the boys one fine Spring day when they were wee lads and promptly filled a plastic kiddie pool with water and put it in with our rabbit hutch which was in a chicken wite enclosure. Great for the ducks right? Keep them in right? They happily ate, swam and pooed in the water that had to be changed daily. Until the night Mr. Raccoon came calling and we awoke to the melee of devastation that left ine lonely baby duck running around in manic circles among the remains of his brothers and sisters. And Roger the rabbit was buried so far into the corner of his(her-yeah we found out later) that we had to dig her out. Spandex? The only thing worse is Spanks. I tried them for the first time for a Christmas party, just to slim things up. Hahahahaha…..all they do is squash your fat into pockets, making you look like a trail of sausage links. They really are for extremely overweight ladies whose fat just needs to be less jiggly. How did your hand heal up BTW?


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