What’s rattling around the gumball machine today:
1. The cotton Granny pants vs Thong question, raised by Jess on “Indicative of Nothing.” I sit firmly on the fence regarding this issue – but not, please note, with any of the fence stuck annoyingly between the cheeks of my ass - and not as firmly as I might have once sat when white-girl-ass was in a less advanced stage.
I am appalled that manufacturers have such difficulty designing underwear that actually looks good and feels comfortable, although my requirements vary a bit from Jess’s. My drawers-drawer is full of practical, mostly-cotton ¾ briefs with French cut sides and enough material to cover my butt. Another section is composed of racy, butt-abrading, lace, torture devices I wear for an entire 15 minutes on…occasions. I make it a point not to turn around much when I wear those, because as Jess indicates in her rant on the subject, at a certain point, the average 40-50-something woman might feel that in a beauty contest, her ass might be voted Miss Surrendering to Gravity.
Then there are bras. Buying one, for me, means a four hour shopping trip pawing through racks of foam-padded, pre-shaped, floatation devices trying to find one lousy bra that doesn’t want to inflate my boobs and insulate them in case of the sudden occurrence of nuclear winter. And doesn’t look like medical apparatus.
So do I need the impractical stuff? Certainly. And my reasons are selfish. I like to see the Scorpio’s eyes light up when I wear lace. It’s not that he’d head for the door if I showed up in an old T-shirt, jeans and flip-flops. It’s that the lace telegraphs intent. I thought about him. This is for him. And he knows it.
As long as we’re talking 30 minutes, this stuff is perfectly lovely and it’s fun. Like stiletto heels, and pointy toed shoes. I mean, hell, you don’t actually intend to walk in those, anymore than you intend to wash the floors or put in a day at work having your skin sanded by synthetic scratchy lace stuff. Not at my age.
A lovely Greek lady who ran the cafeteria where my friend Weedy worked, once pointed out to us, as we debated the calorie count of our lunches, “It no matter. You married!” This is a variation on JF’s theory that men don’t care if you are covered in sheep dip. I’ll admit I think there’s some truth there. But in my experience, it’s an excellent means to achieving the next stage on my personal sexual journey with a partner, which is: “I’d rather clean ashtrays, thanks.” (Note that I say this is my experience. I know it isn’t everyone’s.) I'm conducting experiments in not reaching that stage of the journey now.
The real issue here (world peace, justice and concern for the environment aside for a moment) – is that many women my age are still sexual beings. We'd like a choice. Some of us like sleazy lingerie and the fun of dress-up (even though, in an odd twist, we might be given to wearing cartoon slippers at the same time). So with so many boomers still lingering around, why haven’t manufacturers thought about producing something fabulous that suits an actual female body over the age of 35. I want Jess to have her beloved style #2342s if she wants them, too. (And by the way, L’Oreal, I haven’t forgotten about you taking my favorite orange lipstick off the market, you wankers!) Wake up, manufacturers. We have jobs! We have disposable income. But Brittany is not the image we're looking for.
I urge you to catch Jess’s entry – “I’ve been to Bali and it wasn’t pretty.” It’s nervy, funny, and dead on the money. She’s not taking any prisoners. Hat’s (or thongs) off, Jess! Link to the entry at the top.
