introspective periscope : peeking inside since Y2K ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the undergarment affair home alone - sixth of december "i wish they could see us now in leather bras and rubber shorts like some ridiculous new team uniform for some ridiculous new sport. quick. someone. call the girl police and and and file a report. girl."~ani difranco i suppose its happened before. i don't know why i'm lamenting over it so much, really. its just. bugging me. i work for a company that thrives on sex. i work for a company that, in some senses, sells sexiness. they sell clothes that are cut to highlight curves of the goddess-female form (however uncomfortable some of them seem like they'd be. ahem. that thong. ouch.) and to draw attention to the bulk and muscle of the ideal god-form male. so i suppose i'm a bit perplexed. tonight, i was called from the row where i was working. did i mention i'm working somewhere else now? i am. its not a glamourous job, i suppose. i pack thousands of dollars of clothes a night away in cartons that will fedex off to far off places throughout the country to be sold to girls and boys in malls in the nation's mountains, deserts, and sunny beach towns alike. slinky little tank top numbers and skirts cut much higher than the knee. tight teeshirts that will stretch soft fabric over bulging muscles. sweaters cut to cling to broad shoulders. i pack all of these into cardboard cartons to fill orders. this is my job. yes. they pay me. now dont get me wrong here. i'm not saying that these clothes are leud or any of that. hell. i'd wear some of them. (not the thong.) i only use it as the base of some sort of argument to sort out my hurt feelings and irritation. "we wanted to remind you of our dress code," she said after i'd been called to an office that i hadn't even been aware of its whereabouts until just then. i entered the room to find the lady from HR and my supervisor, a short professional-woman for whom i have my share of professional-respect (given the upton sinclaire-esque working circumstances of the place, a rant all its own). so there was myself, then, and the HR lady and the supervisor and the thick white-leafed employee handbook opened to no uncertain page before me: the dress code page. "i noticed yesterday that you wore a tank top to work. yes, the weather is unseasonably warm. usually, they make some sort of announcement at the meetings. blah. blah." i nodded. "and i just wanted to remind you of the dress code and to make sure you're wearing undergarments. those spaghetti straps aren't okay but a regular tank top like sleeveless is fine." nod. nod. undergarments? jesus. and so it went, my only comment being something to the effect that the handbook makes no mention of undergarments, the part that hurt the most. i mean. if they said that we had to wear bras, surely i would've donned one. but since there was no mandate regarding the issue, i left the house comfortably and content. when i pointed such out, they seemingly brushed the comment aside, siting a new handbook currently in the works. it lasted for about fifteen minutes. i felt the red rise in my face. its been since probably eighth grade since i felt my face flush so scarlett over this issue. jamie walker sat behind me in algebra (heh. algebra. god.)and in a rather quiet moment, ran her finger down my back, noting to a class full of students that i wasn't wearing a bra. it was exactly this tint of crimson achieved this evening that rushed my face. it was exactly that choke of pride and tears fought back that i felt knot in my throat tonight. and when he asked me if i ever felt like this before when i'd not worn a bra, i told him no. but since then, its all been rushing back. years in high school wearing bras that hurt and underwires that cut when nobody probably would've noticed. years of being told that we, as women, must wear them. i'm not a bra burner. i'm a comfort lover. in summer, i don't know a girl that wouldn't be cooler for not having a bra on. i keep thinking of the history of the damned undergarment and wishing i'd not thrown out that health article i'd clipped just this summer talking about the health risks of such ridiculousness. i'm not a perky breast sort of girl, i admit. and until just tonight, i was sure i was okay with that. now, i feel the old blood in my face and the whispers of resolutions to never go a day without cups and straps and biting wires. and thats enough to hurt, i suppose. but add in the slideshow images of some of the girls that work there and their naked midrifts and platform heeled shoes and i am left to wonder what is causing the greater safety issue: unkempt breasts or ridiculous footwear. toby says i think too much, which might account for my headache. and maybe he's right. but tonight, i couldn't help but think that the world is still not over being intimidated by the breast. and so, i offer this. *** Ode to Breasts once, there was another man and he cupped them in his hands and his lips suckled them shortly, my nipples hard and erect at the touch and yet, when it was all over, he expected me to put them back behind the fabric barrier until he wished to see them again; until he could resist them no longer. and when i bathe, i reach up and cup them in my own palms, searching, for i have my own fears about my bosom like unfamiliar lumps and words like cancer and pink ribbons. and these, i suppose are my healthy concerns, the concerns that come with being a woman. but it seems to me that there are others afraid not for my breasts, but of my breasts. others, who harbor some resentment or fear for the free and braless chest. what power could i possibly hold over you that you write lines in your books that require me emprison my body in the factions of your products, in the cups of your bras, over the knives of your underwires, and in the catacombs of your lace? and the man that i love says that my breasts, natural, dip heavily; and he suckles softly at them, worshiping their curves and my subsequent sighs before we make love on the living room carpet and i sense his comfort with my body, his comfort with my fleshy chest. but never gone are the stinging reminders in victoria's secret christmas commercials and new company handbooks. full of such wonder but ah, what wonderful unknown power intimidating and beautiful, must be held in my breasts. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- .what came before. - .what happened next. a diamond at the bottom of the drain - 20 october 2017 |
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