Laugh Lines

Laugh Lines

"Life’s too short to take shapewear—or yourself—too seriously. Sometimes, you just gotta laugh through the chaos."

If anyone had told me at twenty-five that my biggest fashion challenge wouldn’t be buying the right jeans, but trying to pee while wearing shapewear, I would have laughed so hard I might have peed a little.

Hi, I’m Morgan Ellis. Barista by day, aspiring stand-up comic by night. And a full-time awkward mess 24/7.

Last week, I got my first big break: an open mic night at Philly’s hottest comedy club. Like, “Your name’s on the marquee” kind of big break. This was supposed to be my moment—the one where I finally prove that my jokes about awkward dates and my weird family are funny, not just sad but charming.

So I planned everything perfectly. New set, killer outfit, and yes, new shapewear—because, you know, nothing says I’m ready to kill like feeling slightly snatched in all the right places.
The night started well. I nailed my introduction, got a few laughs, and was feeling pretty damn confident. Until the break.

Now, here’s the thing about shapewear: it’s like a clingy ex. It holds on tight, refuses to let go, and makes simple things suddenly complicated.

I felt the urge to pee—normal, right? But going to the bathroom while wearing shapewear? That’s a full-on operation. You have to shimmy and slide, unhook, tug, pray to whatever gods are listening.

So there I was, in the ladies’ room stall, doing what I can only describe as a shapewear striptease, when disaster struck.

First, I realized I’d forgotten to bring safety pins to hold everything in place if things went sideways. Rookie mistake.

Second, mid-shimmy, my shapewear snagged on my favorite dress’s zipper. I heard a rip that was loud enough to shame a rock concert.

And third… I farted. Loudly.

The echo was enough to make the entire bathroom stall blush.

I froze. Then laughed. Then cried. Then decided I had no choice but to own it.

So I waddled out of the stall, holding my dress at a weird angle, shapewear half undone, with a grin plastered on my face.

That’s when I ran into Tina, the club’s veteran comic. She raised an eyebrow but just said, “Girl, I’ve been there. You’ll survive.”

Her words gave me courage, or maybe it was the fact that she laughed with me instead of at me.

ack on stage, I told the story. The audience roared. Turns out, everyone loves a good shapewear fail. Who knew?

But it wasn’t just the story. It was the fact that I was still up there, still trying, still laughing at myself.

After my set, a group of younger comics came over, faces bright with admiration. One of them said, “Morgan, you’re hilarious. Also, thanks for making me feel better about my own disasters.”

I grinned. “Trust me, disaster is the secret sauce.”

We ended up swapping stories about wardrobe fails, bad dates, and awkward moments that somehow made us who we are.

Later, in the quiet corner of the club, Tina handed me a bottle of water.

“Comedy’s not about perfection,” she said. “It’s about being real. And if you can laugh at yourself when the shapewear betrays you, you can survive anything.”

I looked at her, really looked, and felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: belonging.
The next morning, I woke up sore from all the laughing, but glowing. I pulled on my jeans—no shapewear today—and smiled at my reflection in the mirror.

I wasn’t perfect. My dress was torn, my shapewear was a mess, and I had a new appreciation for bathroom logistics.

But I was me. Messy, funny, real.

And honestly? That’s more than enough.