Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

There was a time when I wore underpants that did not cover my belly. I didn’t mind if they just covered my pubic hair and private parts. In fact, I liked that. I assumed that that is what they were for. But now, now my undies must cover my stomach, working as an invisible cloak so that I am less aware of what’s there.

I started thinking about this the other day, when I went to Pink with my younger daughter to get a birthday present for a friend of hers. For those, fortunately, not in the know, Pink is Victoria’s Secret’s store for the tween and teen girl. And if you don’t know what Victoria’s Secret is, well, think fancy undergarments, and HELLO, don’t you ever get to the mall? 

After we finished there we still had time before the birthday party, so we headed to my store of choice: TJ Maxx. And I looked for undies there. The last time I got new ones was at Victoria’s Secret when I got a leopard print mini-brief and a black lacy thong (yes, yes, I know—the things we do for lust) when I was still in the throes of my relationship with TM (Transition Man). So it’s been quite a while.

Experience is something that helps in some endeavors, and underwear shopping is surely one of them. I looked at the bikinis, and reminisced to a time when I didn’t visibly cringe at an imaginary picture of me in them, with so much of me uncovered. And then I looked at the briefs with tummy control and remembered the three pairs that I have at home and their varying degrees of discomfort, and since I was going for comfort, they were out.

I picked out three ribbed cotton high-rise briefs (my shape of choice at this shape) in blue, pink, and purple. They looked so comfortable albeit a bit big, but I know by now that size is deceiving; after all, I really can’t see how much of me is behind me.

My daughter, holding two pairs of size 0 skinny jeans, found me and asked if I would come see how she looks in them. She cast a glance at the underpants hanging from their little hangars (giving them dignity, I guess) in children’s hues and mommies’ heft, and looked away, tainted for life, I think, at the sight of her mother’s fall from grace for having absolutely no self-esteem if she was considering putting those things on.

Humiliated by a look from a twelve-year-old, I put the Big Girl briefs back. Really, I do need to care about how I look, even if it’s for me—especially if it’s for me. Propelled by my desire to find a modicum of sex appeal and comfort, I found a black high-rise brief with some lace and a beige brief that promised “to fit my life” (whatever that means), at least it had a shape to it that you could imagine a woman wearing, and not a pregnant woman, at that.

There’s a wonderful children’s book, Always Wear Clean Underwear!: And Other Ways Parents Say “I Love You” by Marc Gellman, with an essay titled “Don’t Pee in the Pool” (or something like that). The moral of that story is that even if you can get away with peeing in the pool, you still shouldn’t do it because you know it’s wrong. That is how I am training myself to think about my underwear: it doesn’t matter if anyone sees it, I need to feel good about how I dress myself, seen and unseen.

P.S. When I picked up my daughter from the party, I wore my pajamas (with which I do not share my personal space with other garments), so I wasn’t exactly starting out on the right brief.

P.P.S. I'm thinking that it really is time to exercise. If it's (as in the tummy untucked)  bothering me this much, maybe I ought to do something about it. I'm doing well on the diet (I broke on bread products, but not on pasta, rice and potatoes), maybe I'm ready to tackle another self-improvement challenge.

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