November, 2012
Disclaimer: This month’s entry probably contains a bit too much information (TMI) for some of you, and the men among my readers may not know or care about this subject at all. I do, however, hope that if they read this essay, they will have greater sympathy for the plight of women and their dressing challenges.
When it comes to buying “intimate apparel,” men have a decided advantage over women as evidenced by three simple words: Boxers or briefs?
Until the introduction of “boxer-briefs,” men had two basic choices in underwear. Sure, there are colors and patterns, but for the most part, men don’t shop for underwear as much as they restock, simply buying the same thing repeatedly when the old stuff either wears out completely or turns pink because it was washed with a favorite red shirt. Besides, many men don’t shop for underwear at all. That’s the stuff they get for Christmas or when they leave for college, usually purchased by a wife, girlfriend or mother.
For women, this chore is markedly different.
As someone who thinks the term “lingerie” is a foreign word (and it is, isn’t it?), and whose drawers (get it?) are stuffed with the same style of underwear you could find in a nursing home for anyone not dependent on Depends, I find it challenging to buy intimate apparel. After losing a great deal of weight, buying new undergarments is a necessity. No La Perla $125 intimates for me, just very standard issue cotton underwear will do. I’m not looking for satin or lace, for matching under-outfits, or for anything Frederick’s of Hollywood would even carry. Sure, I’ve been in Victoria’s Secret, but only to buy gift cards for other people who, unlike me, don’t think of Victoria as a slut. My stuff comes in plastic packages from Hanes, but even the task of selecting from among that limited collection is overwhelming. There are briefs, “boy” briefs (huh?), bikinis, string bikinis, hipsters, high-cuts, low-rise and, much to my amazement, thongs. Who wants to walk around all day in that kind of discomfort? In fact, some of the packaged panties I buy actually include a “no ride up” claim and purport to be “wedgie free,” which no thong style could ever match. One style has a “comfort soft” waistband, too.
To add to my shopping conundrum, let’s throw in pantyhose and Spanx, those “undie-tectable” tourniquets that promise to make you “slim cognito” by smoothing out your body parts. I’m convinced that constricting your inner organs and forcing them to gather together closely after years of floating around freely must be a bad idea. But damn, don’t you look good? Never mind that you can’t breathe, and that the fleshy parts will eventually work their way up or down so either your ankles or neck will look huge even as your middle looks slim and trim.
Recently I had an event to attend that suggested “cocktail” attire, which meant I would have to forego my usual pants and jacket in favor of an actual dress, thus necessitating the wearing of pantyhose. But what to buy? Could I tolerate Control Top? Can I accept No Nonsense? Do I need “smart support?” There are “almost bare,” “Sheer Energy,” sheer toe, reinforced toe, ultra sheer, sheer to waist (what happens then?), and one pair I found which claims to be “Exceptionally comfortable.” Does that mean the others not so branded are exceptionally uncomfortable? One pair was marked “revitalizing,” which made me want to slip them over my face in hopes of ridding myself of the bags under my eyes – until I realized that with pantyhose over my head I would look like I was about to rob a gas station. You can select from black, jet black, off-black, midnight black, and 50 shades of tan (nude, suntan, beige, natural, etc.).
And then there is the size issue. You check the chart on the package to match up your height and weight with an assigned letter size. Since I have lost so much weight, I no longer have to default to the largest size available, but I swear that my height and weight were unmarked on the chart, falling between two sizes and landing me in uncharted territory, a tiny section of the chart that appears in white – no color – with no corresponding letter. I automatically defaulted to the next size, as any woman would, and bought what I thought might work. I took them home and tried them on, hoping that the crotch wouldn’t land half way down to my knees. I have to admit that it was daunting to open the package and see a tiny little top part that, when matched up against my considerable midsection girth, at least in my mind seemed to say, “No way these will ever get on me.” I guess if we can launch men to the moon we can invent a material stretchy enough to pack in all the requisite body parts while not entirely constricting oxygen and blood flow. At least I hope so.
The control top cinched me in, the legs reenergized me (assuming I was energized in the first place), and that was helpful because by the time I stuffed myself into the pair of sausage skins, I was exhausted. Forget my daily hour-long walks and workouts in the pool. Putting on a pair of pantyhose burns more calories than any activity I do all week, and that’s not even taking into consideration the contortion required to get my feet into them and yank them into place.
After getting them on and being at least a little pleased with myself, it dawned on me that the long night lie ahead, and eventually I would have to go through almost this same process again if I had to visit the ladies room. Do any of the manufacturers provide a catheter to aid in that process? That might be easier than the wrestling match required to put the pantyhose on again.
Unlike other women, I cannot ever put my feet into a shoe that isn’t a sandal without wearing some sort of hosiery on them. So it looks like if I am going to up my game, wear underwear that fits and stuff myself into pantyhose with a dress, I will have to suck it up and in and get on with the deed. How (and, for that matter, why), I wonder, do drag queens do it? And what size do they wear? All I know is that it isn’t always easy being a female of the species.
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