|I want to look like her! God? Are|
For the first time in years—okay, ten or so—I have all new clothes on, including underwear. This came about because, quite frankly, I don’t like buying new clothes for myself so tend to wear them out until they have holes in them. And then they turn into faves, where the holes don’t matter because the item is so bloody comfortable they cease to be seen by me.
So, imagine my appalled expression when Hub caught sight of me in one of my bras the other day. Holes. We’re talking several, to the point the cups were barely hanging onto the band at the bottom. Apart from me being very lax in replacing my bras—more to come on that in a bit—I was rather horrified to realise that I’d done that thing. You know, the thing where you kind of forget that you might want to still make yourself look good for your husband even though you’ve been married a long time.
I bought some new bras after putting the holey one in the bin. Honestly, a part of me died when I dropped it on top of the manky rubbish, resisting the urge to reach in and pluck it back out, hold it one more time—to my face, maybe, in the loving manner those women adopt on fabric softener adverts. Eyes closed. Face a picture of ecstasy (except mine would have portrayed sadness and the mourning of an era—a bra era, but an era all the same).
The bras I purchased were the cheapest I could find—why the hell are they so expensive anyway? They are sports bras, the type with no hooks and eyes. Great, I thought, they’ll do nicely. Hold me up, because God, my nipples really want to move down south these days. This morning I put one on. Or tried to. No one tells you that these sorts of bras roll up like sausages, refuse to move from their tight roll without you ripping the fuckers to shreds, and leave you standing there with your arms pointing upwards, trapped and whimpering because your husband’s gone swimming with the little one and won’t be back for hours…
Muttering, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” and managing to get the bloody thing off, I tried again. Success! Except I
felt weird. Like, the bra wasn’t the holey one. It wasn’t
lived-in, loved, adored. It was new and tight—in a good way; I have quite a
rack now, thanks to the extra padding—and screamed out that it wanted to go
back on the hanger in the shop. I almost convinced myself I could hear the
pitiful wailing of my old bra from the bottom of the bin, crying for me to
release it from its bean-and-teabag-covered prison. Alas, it has to stay there,
and when it’s shifted from the house bin to the outside wheelie bin, then into
the rubbish truck, I shall hold a mini funeral in my head.
|This is no place for something|
that was so loved...
Yes, I loved that bra THAT much.
Now, along with the bras I bought knickers. Nothing fancy, just Granny’s best, except they also felt alien. They didn’t have any hanging elastic. They didn’t sag on my arse. They fitted. And then the leggings, again nothing fancy, and cheap as chips, too, but they are minus the holes at the inner thighs where my old ones so lovingly rubbed together due to the extra flab on my legs. God, those were the days when me and my leggings cavorted in holey glory, creating more rips by the minute in our chafing exploits.
A moment, please, to mourn these items. Bra. Knickers. Leggings. I love you, never forget that.
I also have on a new vest top—four quid, such a fecking barg—except when buying it I didn’t think of the stripe thing. Until I put it on and wondered if I’d got it incorrect. Was I supposed to have bought horizontal or vertical stripes to look more streamlined? Either way, I’ve clearly bought the wrong one. I resemble a sausage with too much filling pumped into the skin. Still, I must look on the bright side. There are no holes.
Wailing bra: But you miss them so…
So, let’s go back to bras and how awkward it is to get the right size. About a year or so ago, before my bin bra got quite so bad, I acknowledged I needed new ones. I’ll go online, I thought, get them on there to save some strange woman in a lingerie shop coming at me with hands outstretched, eager to size me up and get the correct fit. I could see her in my head, her and her insane advance, eyes wide, smile manic. No, I didn’t want anyone touching me or my baps, thanks.
|Talk to the hand, because you are NOT touching my tits!|
With my browser open on the bra section, because it had been soooo long since I’d bought any, it took me a few moments to digest the prices. THAT much just for a tit holder? Did it have gold thread on it or what? Christ. After realising I wasn’t going to get much change out of a hundred quid and knowing I really did have to get them, I went to the size guide. Did exactly what they said. The size it came out with wasn’t my usual, but I shrugged and put it down to me getting a bit thicker around the old middle, you know.
The day of the bra arrival was an exciting one. I waited for the delivery man with my heart jittering, because I’d gone for nice bras, those you see on book covers. Lacy. Padded. Pretty. I was going up in the underwear world, promising to transform myself from a scabby bag lady into a sultry little tart. There were new knickers, too, ones that actually matched. Oh, this day was going to be so good.
|I was supposed to look like this,|
I ripped open the packages and realised the day wasn’t going to be so good after all. The damn bras were like barrage balloons. Seriously, I could pop a few oranges in each cup and use them as a bag, for fuck’s sake. Still, I tried them on, thinking it would be all right and was reduced to feeling like I was eight and had stolen my big sister’s bra to try on for a laugh. I’d need, let’s see, about four socks in each cup for stuffing. And the knickers, don’t get me started. Either up my arse having a good conversation with my rear hole or digging in to my flesh at the sides—boy shorts, who the HELL gets on with those?
This is why I stick with the tried and tested. THIS is why I love holes.
I have nine years and 364 days before I have to go through this horror again. Blessed be.