Lacy Underwear: Friend or Foe?

“There is a period of life where we swallow a knowledge of ourselves and it becomes either good or sour inside.” Pearl Bailey

There are a few things on my “avoid at all cost” list. Eating a 3-month-old open package of hot dogs, being blindfolded while crossing a busy intersection and, most of all, going underwear shopping.

Many times have I walked past a lingerie shop window, looking dreamily at the underwear on the mannequin. Sometimes when I am brave—because just that morning, I easily slipped into one of my sometimes-they-fit-me pair of pants—I boldly walk into the store and ask the shopkeeper to find my size. Okay, maybe I find my own size because I am too embarrassed to admit to someone else what my size is.

As I hike to the change room, I have high hopes that the underwear will make me look sleek, busty and beautiful, just like the supermodel pictured in the window. The balloon is soon burst, I’m afraid, as the underwear trying-on process unfolds.

First, while in the change room, I have to scrunch my own underwear to fit under the new underwear. Why is it that I always choose underwear shopping day to wear my very ugly but comfortable grandma-panties?

Second, I ignore the harsh and absolutely non-flattering lights. I believe these lights were intentionally manufactured to home in and pick up any microscopic flaw on the body. Underwear retailers, give your heads a shake.

Third, I look at myself with the underwear on. This is where things get messy. Like many women, I have a love/hate relationship with my body. I have had a pear-shaped body and cellulite on the backs of my legs since I was 13 years old. This means I have had twenty-five-plus years to get used to the fact that I have a pear-shaped body and cellulite on the back of my legs.

But really, there is no logic when it comes to underwear shopping. My emotional side comes out in full force. All I can see are all the things that are wrong with my body. No matter how pretty the underwear. No matter that there are some really great aspects to my anatomy. I can only focus (obsess would be a more appropriate word) on the few things that are not “perfect”.

Next comes the tape recorder in my head with negative self-talk. “What is the use in buying this beautiful underwear when I look so fat and ugly? How could I possibly be sexy looking like this? Why don’t I just go hide under a rock and never punish any other human being by having them look at this horrible excuse of a body?” Okay, okay, I’m not that bad.

Inevitably, though, I give the underwear back to the shopkeeper—much too deflated to purchase the beautiful garment. I resolve, once again, never to punish myself like that.

Lacy underwear: friend or foe? I am not so certain it is the underwear that is the culprit to all of my angst. Sexiness is not a state of body but a state of mind. A confident, playful, and devil-may-care sexy attitude will overrule flabby thighs, stomach, or arms any day of the week.

Therefore, I have two choices every time I look at my almost-naked body too critically in the mirror and don’t match up to what society pushes down my throat as acceptable. I can beat myself up for not being perfect, or I can accept my body as it is.

I might as well go with option #2 because it’s not like I am going to grow big breasts and slim hips anytime in the near future. As well, I need to praise myself more and feel good that I make a conscious effort to take care of myself by eating properly, exercising regularly and keeping my mind active.

The flip side of the underwear dilemma is how gosh darn selfish I become when I am like this. I never ask my husband if he likes me in the underwear. Oh no, sir. I just (wrongly) assume he will find me as hideous as I find myself. It’s a shame, really. If I could get past my self-destructive ways, I would find that he’s not looking at my flaws. He’s only looking at the wonderful stuff about me.

Plus, when I am wrapped up in all of this craziness, it doesn’t allow the sexy side of me to come out and play. Insecurities, in general, push people away instead of letting them get close. Pushing people away isolates. It is a negative life-loop that way too many women fall victim to.

After thinking it through, I defiantly went back and purchased that great pair of underwear. A new state of mind and a new pair of lacies. It does not get much sexier than that.

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This article was published on Tuesday 11 December, 2007.