We have to thank the body positivity movement for changing the conversation about beauty standards. Women of all shapes and sizes are beautiful, and we get to define what beautiful is. Is your beautiful an oversized vintage mechanic's jumpsuit? Hot. I'm here for it. Is your beautiful a skin-tight pleather miniskirt and sequined bustier? Get it, girl.
Are you comfortable? Do you feel good? That's all that matters, then. I mean, context matters a little. Maybe wear a shirt that covers your whole torso at the office. We all know frigid summer office temps are a patriarchal mandate stemming from men's optimal temperature range and also a vested interest in seeing ladies' nips. And maybe don't wear that mechanic's jumpsuit to a black-tie wedding, but otherwise, we're free to be you and me.
More than changing the conversation about outward appearances and outer garments, though, is the changing notion of inner beauty. Or maybe under beauty would be more accurate, because, dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to talk about underwear. That's right. Bras and panties. Does anyone else hate the word panties? I don't know why but I just realized I hate it almost as much as I hate moist, creamy, crusty, and bucket. If you're now picturing a bucket full of moist, creamy, crusty panties, then congratulations on your reading comprehension and synthesis skills.
I am so glad feminists now have this 'you do you' attitude instead of the bra-burning crusades of yore. I, for one, get a little jeals when I see women walking around without a bra. I just can't do it. It's not a modesty thing. I require support and structure. The girls hang low, and there's a certain gravitational pull that defies the laws of physics for such small and light objects. I can't blame all this jealousy on the youth, because I also see women who are clearly older than me rocking gloriously unfettered nips. I can't blame my situation on breastfeeding, because I've clearly never done that. I'm just the proud owner of essentially two lemons in a pair of tube socks.
How is it a moment of sweet relief to fling off your bra when you get home at the end of a long work day? If I take my bra off too fast, I get passive aggressive notes from the downstairs neighbors asking me to please not play bocce indoors. It's ignorant. And don't even get me started on stairs. I take the stairs too fast without a bra on and I have to watch my step; it's like walking behind two slinkies asymmetrically slithering down each step.
Thanks in part to the body pos movement, we now enjoy a proliferation of web-based bra companies marketing an endless array of styles in every possible size. This is a real and true mercy, and not just because I can finally find bras that kinda sorta fit (start making bras where you can choose a different cup size for lefty and righty and then we'll talk). I'm relieved I can bra shop from the comfort of my own couch because the last time I went bra shopping in a brick and mortar store, a senile old woman pushed open the door of my Macy's fitting room while I was fully topless to ask me where I got my shoes.
Now let's talk about those undies. Apparently we have Rihanna to thank for making granny panties socially acceptable again. And there's that P word creeping up on us. I thought about censoring it, but when you see the phrase "granny p***ies" you totally read it as "granny pussies" which is objectively way worse.
But I digress. Thank you, Rihanna, for your bold humanitarian endeavor. Thank you for liberating us from the societal pressure to avoid visible panty line.
Full disclosure: I have never worn a thong. I owned one once, but never wore it out of the house without losing resolve and putting on normal underwear. How can you people wear a garment that is expressly designed to BE a wedgie? The aggression will not stand, man. It's like flossing your ass. So I am here for the Granny P***y trend. Yes please now and forever.
Now let's make a hard left turn into uncharted territory that is only tangentially related to the subject of thongs vis a vis butt floss.
Junior year of high school, I had my first real boyfriend and wasn't taking things too seriously as Christmas approached. I wanted to choose a gift for him that said, "We're having some fun times, but my heart is made of pumice stone (abrasive yet porous) and you haven't yet penetrated the rough and gnarled exterior." Naturally, I went to the mall and hit up Spencer's for some Butt Floss and rounded things out with a used Zelda game for N64 or whatever.
Fast forward to the night before Christmas Eve and his dad died suddenly of a heart attack. That was obviously horrible and it is not at all the funny part of the story. In light of this unexpected tragedy, I was feeling like a real piece of shit about my gift, but I hoped maybe the absurdity of it all would cheer him up. Christmas Eve, he came over for dinner with my family and we exchanged gifts. I opened mine first. I was expecting something on the spectrum of corny to grossly inappropriate. Anything between a Whitman Sampler or a lacy thong from K-mart wouldn't have been off-brand here.
What did I pull out of the beautifully wrapped box that I suspect his friend's mom wrapped for him? A thick, burgundy wool scarf. Fair enough, it was a nice color, it looked warm, I was (and am) always complaining about being cold. But no, this wasn't just any wool scarf. HE HAD LEARNED HOW TO KNIT AND SPENT THE LAST THREE MONTHS KNITTING ME THIS FLAWLESS GESTURE OF DEVOTION. And then he opened his gifts from me. I'll never know if the tears in his eyes were were about his dad or the very obvious 'fuck you' that my gift selection expressed.
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