Bound to Look Good

My daughter Kristen and I recently went shopping for undergarments.

As we walked into Macy’s, I asked the young woman at the perfume counter, “Where do you keep your intimates?”

She froze and her eyes widened.

“Intimates?” I asked again, thinking she didn’t hear me.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” she said, knitting her brows.

Kristen shook in silent laughter. As I glanced at the sales attendant, realization dawned.

“Oh!” I said, my face burning. “You thought I meant, like, intimates …” I trailed off. That was worse. “I mean intimate apparel. Bras. Panties,” I continued haltingly.

The associate’s shoulders relaxed as we all burst out laughing at my misinterpreted question. She pointed us to the “up” escalator, shaking her head.

Round ‘em up

As a child in the ’60s, my undergarment was a sleeveless cotton t-shirt. The neckline was etched with delicate lace. A tiny pink bow was tacked to the front.

My mother was a bullet bra girl. At the time, that style was still popular — their firm, pointy, and bruising structure coercing one’s body into a specific silhouette.

Another essential component of women’s lingerie was the girdle. Playtex, an intimate apparel manufacturer in Delaware, became Mom’s official underwear brand. Due to her contacts, she was able to buy discounted seconds.

On our farm, Mom’s outfits consisted of free-flowing, snapped-front, pastel floral muumuus — everything allowed to run as loose and free as our chickens. However, when she went to town, church, or social functions, out came the fully sculpted bullet bra and rubberized girdle.

I’m not clear if Mom chose a size too small or if the shapewear was supposed to be a medieval torture contraption — however, it always took two of us to help her squeeze into it.

Generally, my younger sister Valarie and I would get a call from her bedroom.

“Val! Wendy! I need help!” she’d holler.

One did not ignore my mother’s commands.

“Yes, Mommy!” we would say, dropping our Barbies and running.

“Help me pull up my girdle.”

Val and I would look at each other in despair. We were not particularly strong kids, and Playtex designers were very skilled when they created these spandex fortresses.

With sighs, we dug in.

Pulling as hard as we could, Mom would twist, turn, groan, and with a final “heave ho!” her girdle would finally wrap her torso in gut-confining Lycra.

Training Day

I hated the moment my mother told me I could no longer wear undershirts.

It was the summer of 1968, and I was going into 6th grade.

“Come on, Wendy, we are going shopping,” she said, ebony patent leather purse on her arm.

“Do I have to?” I asked.

She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows, her gaze boring through me.

Heaviness filled my chest as I folded my sleeveless cotton undershirts. I caressed the pretty bow and dainty lace one last time.

Between the admonitions of strict, ruler-smacking Catholic nuns and Mom’s vivid threats of the consequences of close contact with boys, I viewed the transition from undershirt to bra as an embarrassing and shameful experience.

We went to J.C. Penney’s. Mom picked out a silky, stretchy junior training bra. I wasn’t sure what I was in training for. Mouth dry, I furtively searched each aisle as we made our way to the cash register — hoping no boys from my school were around.

A month later, we were watching the news. Women were removing their binding bras and burning them in Atlantic City. One woman shouted, “We’re tired of making coffee and not policy!”

I wasn’t sure what that meant at the time, however, I saw an opening.

“Mom! Look! Maybe I can still wear my undershirts!” I exclaimed.

I don’t remember what my mother said. Perhaps it was more her look than her words. There would be no discussion. My comfy shirts stayed folded and put away.

What goes around comes around

Decades later, now a doctor, I was to discover that hardwiring can be difficult to overcome. I found myself unconsciously confining my own curves.

I went shopping for my son’s wedding. Fluffier now, menopausal and frustrated, I tried to find the perfect mother-of-the-groom outfit.

My husband, Richard, had joined me as an “independent observer.” I tried on flowy gowns, pantsuits with sequins, and short cocktail dresses. Nothing fit. Nothing looked right. I needed a glass of prosecco. I stomped my foot. I quit.

Richard considered my tantrum for a moment.

“Let’s just look a bit longer,” he said softly.

We searched through multiple racks when we unexpectedly discovered a beautiful light gray dress with jacket and modest sequins. The outfit was a size smaller than my usual; however, it was the last one.

“No,” I said shaking my head violently. “It’s not going to fit.”

“Come on,” he said with that smile I still can’t resist. “Just try it on.”

Downheartedly, I went into the dressing room. It fit. Almost. My tummy pooch made me look seven months pregnant.

A tear dropped. I put my clothes back on and dejectedly carried out the dress.

“Any way I can drop twenty pounds in a week?” I asked my patiently waiting husband. “It is really close, except for this.” I pressed my stomach to flatten it.

Richard hesitated. And then said, “Isn’t there some kind of, I don’t know, something, that you can wear underneath that holds everything in?”

“Like a boa constrictor?” I asked wiping my soggy nose.

“No,” he laughed. “Come on, Wendy, you know, some type of girdle like our mothers’ wore. Spanx or something.”

“Hmm. Spanx. That’s a great idea,” I replied, straightening my spine. It did not immediately dawn on me that I was perfectly fine in my aging body. My brain was telling me it was not good enough.

I have no idea how many women shop for undergarments with their spouses. I’m guessing it’s not many. Exhausted, we trudged into the intimate apparel section at Neiman Marcus.

For this too small dress, I thought I needed full body armor. I chose a beige Spanx onesie with crotch snap. I grabbed a size and hoped for the best.

Since there was no sales attendant in sight, I went into the fitting room area alone, leaving Richard waiting in the showroom.

Selecting one of the empty dressing bays, I closed and locked the door. Turning around, I was jolted by multiple images of me from every angle. There were more mirrors in this room than a fun house.

Sighing, I held up the Spanx. A full torso of silken fabric and plastic stays — it was just missing limbs. Feeding rolls of my skin into the stretchy material like a sausage casing, I managed to wiggle it on.

Breathing was optional. I could only take short gasps of air.

I tried on the new dress again. The new-fangled girdle succeeded in reducing my expectant-looking belly to a more slimming four months. A near enough victory.

I slipped off the glittering silver outfit. Without warning, as I unfastened the Spanx crotch, it recoiled like a spring, twisting into a skintight band around my waist.

As I struggled and tugged, it resisted, seemingly coming to life. I raised my arms over my head as I wrestled any loose fabric I could find. The Spanx snapped, pinning my arms against my ears.

My hands were free, but useless, trapped above my head. In this diver’s pose, my bottom was a free spirit while my chest and arms were firmly bound by the demon shapewear.

“Richard,” I said breathlessly. “Honey?”

No answer.

Sweat trickled down my spine, my face flushed and hair damp. A heat wave had descended.

My cell phone was resting on a metal stool. Leaning over like an inflatable air dancer balloon, I strained to reach it — successfully knocking it to the floor.

I kneeled and assumed a yoga-like child’s pose. Still immobilized by the girdle, I couldn’t bring my hands to my face. Dialing the phone was impossible.

Frustrated with sweat burning my eyes, I scooted towards the wall and shimmied up.

Standing, now lightheaded, I thought maybe through ESP, I could reach Richard in my time of need. I sent powerful mind waves: “Honey, please come.”

Again, no answer.

I’d have to go out and find him.

Arms over my head, I felt blindly for the lock on the door. Success! I tiptoed out and peeked onto the sales floor. “Honey?” I said in a whisper.

He was not there.

“Richard!” I yelled. A distant “yes?” geolocated him.

“I need you!” I cried out. “Now!”

I would like to say that my husband ran over and immediately helped me out of bondage.

Instead, he strolled over, paused, assessed my predicament, and grinned.

“You’ve got to help me out of this,” I said in a menopausal-induced gorgon growl. “No one is in here. Please come!”

We retreated to the changing area.

He tugged. I pulled. The Spanx fought back. Our multiple reflections appeared as though we were battling a mythical many-headed creature. Richard lost his grip a bit. As we continued to struggle, we started laughing.

Finally, he managed to free me from the nylon beast. I inhaled deeply.

“Are you buying it?” he asked.

“Damn straight,” I said still panting. “I may not be able to breathe, but nothing will be jiggling!”

We gathered the garments and exited to the sales area, still laughing and hair tousled from our recent skirmish.

Immediately outside stood a saleswoman. We stopped short.

Her jaw went slack.

Without missing a beat, Richard brushed back his hair with his hand, and holding out the lingerie, said, “We’ll take it.”

My pulse quickened as butterflies fluttered inside my belly.