I’m in the mood for some fun and frisky words. You too? Fabulous.
A few weeks ago, I did some very last minute shopping for my friend’s bridal shower. Before leaving the house, I checked her online registry and it was complete. So I scratched the plan to buy her something prudent and safe like salad tongs. Not to be deterred, I headed to the cute little lingerie store in my neighborhood. I didn’t think much about it, but I brought Toddler with me. It was a Saturday morning and Husband was with Baby and it was a man-on-man, divide-and-conquer kind of day. Fine.
So Baby and I strolled into the tiny shop full of frilly things. Very efficiently, I zeroed in on two very practical and pretty cotton nighties (hate that word) and paid. The kind lady behind the counter gift-wrapped them while I played with a stroller-captive Toddler, trying to distract her from the forest of flirty items. The whole transaction took less than ten minutes and we were on to more kid-appropriate activities. Fine.
Since then, though, I have been thinking a lot about lingerie. And this is not overly surprising because I think a lot about a lot of things and too much about most. But, lingerie? Yes indeed.
Here’s the thing: I love the idea of tasteful lingerie. Of flattering colors and cuts. Of beautiful fabrics and fits. But I love the reality of pajamas and sweats and yoga pants. (So here you are, lapping up my frivolous musings, proud of the fact that not every day has to be about some deep question, and bam. We are debating Ideality vs. Reality. That’s the way I roll. Sorry.)
I have some exquisite lingerie. I do. It sits in a shopping bag somewhere in my closet. I have not pulled it out since my honeymoon. Every now and then, I look at the bag and the silky straps that spill from it, and giggle. That’s the extent of my relationship with lingerie. Fine.
I tell myself this is real life. Because it is. I care—probably too much—about how I look. I care about what I wear. But when I’m home? I’m home. I crave comfort. And perhaps I am utterly delusional (likely), but I think comfort can be cute. Sexy, even.
Yesterday, I was listening to the radio as I got ready for the day. And a woman’s voice bellowed toward me, saying something like: “Stay tuned to learn about the one thing all women must get rid of in order to be more appealing to men.” Like a good girl, I stayed tuned.
A moment later, she was back for the big reveal.
“The one thing that women, all women committed or no, must get rid of? Sweatpants.”
Oh no. This is not what I wanted to hear. But I listened to the debate that ensued. The woman from Cosmo argued that sweatpants are the anti-lingerie. Another woman waged the argument that many sweatpants are very flattering these days and that when paired with a little tank, can be quite sexy. I went about my day a bit confused about all this.
Last night, I met a very good friend for dinner. We caught up about life and babies. We laughed a lot. And toward the end of the meal, I asked her about sweatpants. She told me that by the end of every day, she is in sweatpants with her hair up. This sounds very familiar. Me too! I crooned. And this made sense to me. Because we are both people with busy lives and small children. Because we are both immersed in real life.
Then we paid the check, parted ways, and returned to our respective homes to put on our sweatpants!
But now. On this Wednesday morning, I wonder. Maybe real life and lingerie can – and should – commingle?
(Told you fun and frivolous. Cheerio, comrades!)