Recently over at Bonbon Break I wrote about some lingerie I was sent to review and I guess this got McSweetie a little bit excited. Whoa. Hold on there. Not THAT excited.
You can read the post here if you want.
He has never really complained about my lounge and sleep attire. Sure it’s mismatched, saggy, and stained with a myriad of substances, human and food related. But I’m a comfy gal. Always have been. Even in our early courting days when weekends would be spent at each other’s apartment. There we’d be over morning coffee and he would make fun of my giant ribbed orange socks. I loved those orange socks. I bought them at the Gap in 1991 with a matching orange and white striped top. Because you always bought a pair of socks to match your shirt at the Gap in the ’90s.
Those socks lasted at least until 2005 when I finally put them in the Goodwill pile. They were my favorite bedtime orange socks. But it was time they go.
Apparently, it’s also time that my pajama bottoms with ice skating penguins take a hike as well. Maybe the underwear with one too many period stains should get the heave ho. It’s hard. I get attached to my things. Even old, ragged gross things.
I have been quite content with my ‘comfortable self’ these last couple years. In fact, I think blogging has gotten me more ‘comfortable’. Because I spend a lot of time writing, I’m sitting. A lot. Let’s face it. Writing is not cardio. And eating while writing is devastating to one’s waist.
But this is not a fitness post. Nope. I can preach and preach from the mountain tops and bell towers how I am learning to love my body ‘as-is’ and you should too. I am not talking about that so much.
I’m talking about when my husband bought me a bunch of trashy lingerie lately and it made me cry.
I am not sure if I will understand how my husband’s brain works. And that’s okay. He sure as heck is not going to figure mine out either. But I’m trying to at least put myself in the lobe of his noggin that thinks, “I’m going to buy Rebecca lingerie that looks awesome on a model that is a size zero with double D boobs and it’s going to look just as fabulous on her as it does the model chick.”
It’s no secret that I don’t have double D boobs and I’m not a size zero. I like to hover around a size 6 and lately it’s been more of an 8. AND THAT’S OKAY.
BUT- trying on anything that is too small, let alone with holes strategically placed along the waist line, or see through lace in other areas, is enough to put one over the edge of a Xanax needing cliff.
McSweetie- “I got you some things.”
Me- “You did? Oh boy! What?” (this is where I hope it’s shoes, lipstick or a handbag)
Mc- “Some lingerie. Here, try it on and you can wear it tonight.”
Me- “Uhm, there’s nothing flannel or over-sized here. Where’s the fuzzy comfy stuff?”
Mc- “You have fuzzy comfy. Let’s try sexy and shiny.”
Me- “You know this won’t fit me right? It’s like tacky city here of poor quality and even worse fit. You know this right?”
Mc- “Well, I think I bought it in your size, so give it try.” Eyes hopeful.
Later, I shaved my legs and pits, applied bronzer lotion everywhere I could and gave the garments a go.
Not one fit me. Not. One.
I was devastated. Sure, one of them looked like a banana hammock Borat wore but only in red lace. That one actually did fit better than the others. But let’s not go there.
After some time of pouting and stomping around the house obviously with a huge chip on my shoulder, he asked what was wrong.
“Nothing fits, that’s what’s wrong! You think it’s fair to make me try stuff on that is clearly made for a 22 year old who has never had children?!” I wail.
What a selfish pig! What a misogynistic asshole to think I can just conform to the rigors of what society thinks is pretty! How dare he?I am going to burn all of Frederick’s of Hollywood down to the ground for leading men on to think us women can wear this shit! Who does he think he is?
Him- “Well, I just thought you would look awesome in it. I wanted to see you in something sexy just the way you are. But if you aren’t comfortable with it, I’ll just return it.”
Me- “You will? Really? Because, maybe I can get something sexy but that fits me better and is better quality so I feel comfortable in it and want to wear it, you know?”
Him- “Sure. I would love that. I’ll just send this stuff back.”
Me- <wipes tears away> “Oh okay. Thanks babe. I love you.”
Him- “I love you too.”
And just like that I felt dumb for feeling so mad. If it was a pair of shoes that didn’t fit, or a sweater, I would have shrugged, put it back in the bag with the receipt and went about my day. But the fact that it was lingerie made this whole thing in my mind about body image that was just dumb.
HE has no problem with my body and probably wishes he could see more of it more often.
Now that the weather is warming up, he just might get his wish. Which is kind of getting me to get moving so the certain parts of me jiggle less and less as the flannel turns to cotton and the sweatshirts turn to tank tops.
I’m feeling kinda sassy like I can get it a little higher and tighter, locked and loaded. And who’s to say I might be shopping a little bit for some tasteful yet alluring intimate wear? Hmm?
After all, McSweetie is a sweetie and a very deserving one.
But let’s leave the trashy cheap satin and lace to the 22 year old’s, shall we?