Every so often, I get to thinking that I need to activate my grown and sexy powers in the form of lingerie. I’m talking boob-lifting, curve-hugging, I should be a Victoria’s Secret angel strutting down a star-lined runway in a million-dollar bra type of lingerie. Then I work up the nerve to make this sound investment and instantly remember why my panty drawer is void of the frilly, lacy stuff to begin with: lingerie is far from comfortable.
Sensible babydolls aside, I’m well aware of the fact that most lingerie wasn’t invented with a woman’s comfort in mind. After all, if it serves its visual, fantasy-driven purpose, you won’t have it on for very long anyway. But in getting your partner excited and the two of you in the mood (or to just feel sexy by your damn self because, supposedly, that’s what lingerie does), there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to, I don’t know, breathe while wearing lingerie. That’s if you can even get it on in the first place.
My recent attempt at trying on a teddy at the store was so comical, I almost thought I was being punked. I had to step into the teddy and shimmy it up my body while pulling with all my might. I felt like I needed a team of at least two in order to get it above my waist, plus a medic on deck just in case I passed out once it was on or fell while doing a move similar to the pee-pee dance to get it in place. Something was clearly wrong. This was unnecessarily complicated. I needed a lifeline. Could I at least call a friend to talk me through this? That would only take up time, though, in a process I have little patience for. Instead, I triple-checked to make sure I had the right size. I did (at least I thought I did), but that didn’t seem to matter.
Once I finally got it on, the teddy was beyond unflattering. It wrongfully put the focus on some of my wobbly bits and its tightness made my insides hurt. Stuffed and squeezed in all the wrong places, I remember scowling and incessantly shaking my head in the floor-length mirror before me. The horrible fluorescent lights in the dressing room didn’t help the situation either. All that work for zero payoff.
Maybe the next piece will look better, I thought. It didn’t. Then I checked out the price tag on that puppy and was even more unnerved. I don’t care how intricate or lace-filled lingerie is, there’s no reason why a piece of clothing with such little fabric should set you back oodles of dough. Not all lingerie is pricey, mind you, but maybe I’m just cheap. Perhaps I don’t understand the lure of lingerie. Is it an acquired taste, something you have to get used to wearing? And how do you care for it? I feel like lingerie, particularly those pieces with thongs, a.k.a., butt floss, doesn’t have much of a long shelf life.
Taking the teddy off proved just as difficult as putting it on. I felt like I needed an instruction manual, a glass of wine or an industrial-sized pair of scissors to aid me in the process (and this was me – what if a guy was trying to take it off? Mood killer.) With a little prayer and enough tugging, though, I succeeded without tearing it up. Needless to say, I had no desire to return to the racks to search for another piece of lingerie that was bound to disappoint me. So I left the store with no purchases in hand, feeling angry that I wasted all that time trying to live up to some supposed ideal that doesn’t speak to me. It has never spoken to me.
How, then, was I duped for the umpteenth time into thinking I need lingerie in order to look and feel sexy? Oh, the mendacity!
I think part of being grown and sexy is knowing what makes you feel comfortable. Nothing about lingerie makes me feel comfortable, let alone sexy. I’m not knocking those who wear it; I just recognize that the next time I think of adding some to my repertoire, I’ll know better.
