There is a lot to celebrate about lingerie, a
hell of a lot, but I have also been struck recently, by items of lingerie,
which have stood out in my lifetime, as abject failures- Lingerie Nightmares.
I have picked out 3 of these from my list, 2 of which I've had the misfortune to have worn and 1 I've not yet succumbed to.
I want to begin by talking about underwear and
poppers girls. And no, I'm not referring to the time you ran out of the club, high on Amyl Nitrate, clad only in your french knickers and heels.
If I want my pupils (and more besides) to dilate and to experience an euphoric rush every time I put on lingerie, I'll remortgage and buy shares in Agent Provocateur. No, I am, of course, talking about Bodies.
Do you remember the rise and fall of Bodies?
They seemed to answer so many prayers at the time didn't they? They were all in one, stretchy, comfy and with the minutest of click, click, clicks, they were ready to go.
Except the apparent ease of "popping" was not actually
easy at all. You either had to contort your legs out of all recognisable shape, as though you had spent the last year on a very wide horse,
whilst at the same time, head down, eyes focussed, like a concerned ostrich OR pull the base of the body so far down that you risked either pulling it out of shape or accidentally letting go and having your eye taken out swiftly by a rogue popper.
And then they were gone. Charity shops filled
up with them as quickly as they filled up with other redundant articles,
like video tapes, records and miniature stone cottages.
But, my own theory for the demise of this particular Lingerie Nightmare, is that deep down in the psyche of every woman
who had ever bought one, was a memory, an image, of the only other article of clothing with poppers around the crotch-the babygrow.
Next on my list-the unforgiving, suspender belt
from hell. I remember some of the first suspender belts I ever wore. They were pretty and flimsy and feminine and all that I could ever want -until I put them on. There was no give, no elastic, no lycra.
Devoid of the slightest possibility of stretch, if you had dared put
a pound or 2 on, they acted as a kind of lingerie stomach strangler,
turning anything but a flat tummy into a suspender belt belly bagel,
cutting off the possibility of ever sitting down without being sliced
into 2 and leaving you with a lovely red chafe mark that
took days to fade away.
Both Bodies and Suspender Belts from Hell I have personally experienced, but my last Lingerie Nightmare has evaded me thus
far. I wake up screaming some nights from an actual nightmare, where I have actually bought these and willingly worn them too.
I am, of course, referring to the Sunday Supplement White Bras.
You know what I'm talking about, and perhaps they are your nightmare too.
You know the ones, the shapeless, tasteless, creepy bras with endless panels. Panels for your cocoa and your slippers, panels for everything and they just go on forever and they make me want to turn and run,
crying in horror. Maybe it's because, like death, I know, that they are coming for me and that, sooner or later, I will give in, give up,
forgo femininity and cuteness and prettiness and sexiness and taste and colour and ribbons and bows and lace and all manner of important
things like that, heave a huge sigh of relief and mouth the word "COMFY".
But I will make a vow of sisterhood here. I will rage against the dying of the lingerie and, if I ever, ever, wear this last item, feel free to ship me off to the Netherlands and administer a sleepy,sleepy
drug to my clearly addled mind and body-for there is nothing left to live