01.01.70
Mortified, principally by the announcement of the special occasion
to any listening passerby or staff fellow, I let my mom guess what
my size would be and fished in a sale barrel with one eye closed,
filled with trepidation of what I might find. After being stiff to
try on the first thing that grabbed me, the sales woman asked if
she could help me find complementary panties. I blanched and begged to
just be set free of the torture.
When I got digs, I shoved the frilly pink thing to the back of my
underwear drawer, terrified of the development it symbolized.
I didn't want to be one of "those girls" that started wearing
makeup and low-cut blouses or admitted I had hit nubility just
because I had suddenly
grown boobs.
Ten years later, I have about 40 bras and enough pairs of panties
to last me more than half a year without washing them.
I'm not a wife who loves shoes or purses or even expensive jeans.
Lingerie is my rupture.
And since my name ended up on a catalog mailing list when I was in
high school, the Victoria's Clandestine models have been my enablers -
women I wished I looked like welcoming me to interest with them the
candy-colored underthings they get paid to wear.
Source: The Orion