As women we have always enjoyed our inner Goddess but as time passes, I find myself relating more to Medusa on decaf than I do Aphrodite.
In the early years I whined and griped about my skin not being perfect; Cindy Crawford was skinnier and prettier than me and I wanted bigger breasts. Then my child bearing years came and my skin cleared up. While Cindy Crawford was still skinnier and prettier than me, my breasts were finally bigger. My children were a gift but one that branded me with an abundance of stretch marks that in the right light resembled a city street map.
Recently single again I decided to comb out a few of Medusa's snakes and bring back a little of my old friend, the Goddess. Doing intense research that involved phoning all my friends who actually like to shop, I made a list of must-haves. On the top of everyone's list seemed to be pretty underpants, their theory being that if you felt self-assured and pretty under your clothes the self-love would ooze out of the rest of you. Off to the lingerie store I went.
No one thought to inform me that every pair of sexy underwear is a thong. As I poured through the racks the 'Sales Child' approached me to help. I briefly explained my 'new me' theory and asked for help. Her first question left me confounded, 'What size are you?' It's not like I've never owned pretty undies before but this was a whole new ball game. I do not fully understand how there is even a size question when we are just talking string. Is there some giant thong factory in a foreign country that bases sizes on the length of string? Do we even trust their judgment?
I shrug in reply. Is that pity I see on her face? She tells me not to worry - we'll just pick a bra first and match the bottoms afterwards. She explains how wonderful it will be to have matching undergarments. I tell her not to worry, I've been matching mine for years, beige and white of course, but matching nonetheless.
She starts questioning me about what kind of bra I prefer, push them out, up, sideways. I just want them to not be making conversation with my waist anymore, I reply. When I tell her I'm wearing a nursing bra, she asks how old my baby is.
At this point I have to admit that she's five years old, not months, and that the bra is comfy and broken in. I'm pretty sure I see her eyes twitch a little bit. I knew I should have just brought my sister. I could have hidden in the change room and had her throw items over the door. The Sales Child gathers her strength, hauls me into one of the rooms, measures me and bolts out. Next thing I know she's back with an armload of bright colors and lace, instructing me to start trying things on.
Thirty minutes of sweating, swearing, and a small bruise from the unruly clasp later, I have finally selected two that I think say, Now these are breasts. Sales Child rips the objects out of my hands, grabs matching panties off the rack and rings me through never once asking if I need anything else. I start to ask if there is such thing as a thong with control top but think better of it. Apparently I have already put the fear of mid-life into her.
I head straight home to try on my 'new self.' I opt to put them on under a cute sundress and go grocery shopping to see if the world notices my self-love oozing out. I get all dolled up but something doesn't feel right. I slip the sundress off to check in the mirror and sure enough I think I have my undies on sideways. It's hard to tell when you're slipping on a game of cats-in-the-cradle gone wrong. I fix the problem and get ready again.
While I walk through Walmart I try to see if anyone notices me and find it increasingly difficult being that every step I take makes my pretty panties turn into a giant wedgie and the amount of cleavage I can see pouring out of my top makes me keep checking to see if I've spilled anything on my shirt. I give up and head for home to put on my old hoodie and my flannel jammy bottoms. I have to pick a new goddess perhaps, Thalia, the muse of comedy. I'm almost positive that she wears control top under her toga.