I’m juggling a host of symptoms that, to my surprise, were diagnosed
as laryngopharyngeal reflux. Along with the diagnosis came a plethora of
dietary and behavioral restrictions. No alcohol! No caffeine! No chocolate! No
tomatoes! Sleep with your head elevated! Wait four hours after dinner before
going to bed! Don’t wear restrictive clothing!
Restrictive clothing?
Unless I’m in my flannel nightgown it’s all restrictive
clothing!
When I lamented my sad fate to my 29 year old son, he sympathized
with me appropriately. When he heard of my restrictive clothing restriction, he
just laughed.
“Mom” he said, “just start wearing leggings!”
Sage advice from my son – clearly displaying his status as
husband to fashion forward Lilly – and firm supporter of women’s rights.
Women’s rights?
Well, yes. Women of a certain age range, which happens to
include my age, are not confident about their bodies. And women of a certain
weight range, which happens to include my weight, are not confident about their
read ends. At a tender age, I was sold a life sucking piece of industrial
bondage called a girdle. Putting on a girdle was not far afield from cinching
corsets decades before, requiring contortions, discomfort, and unnatural
compression. Ancestors of today’s Spanx, these iron maidens flattened and
tightened all the jiggly bits leaving the wearer unable to fully inhale or walk
naturally.
Thankfully, girdles have gone the way of the beehive hairdo,
but my closet today does hold, well, shall we say, restrictive undergarments. And
stretch jeans, lots of pairs of stretch jeans, which are equally successful at tightening
things up.
So leggings?
Years after I met my husband, we discussed our first
impressions of each other. While I unflatteringly told him I thought he looked
like he had been cloroxed (well, he was a redhead and it was winter) he told me
he thought I “packed an acre.”
Let’s unpack that. It’s an odd euphemism that says I had a
big gluteous maximus, rear end, bottom, behind, fanny. It was with me then. It is with me now.
So, I’m expected to cover my, er, fanny, with something
as honest, as leggings?
I decided, despite the rabid criticism of Superbowl Gaga’s
tiny tummy to try a pair, to embrace – to accept- and be unashamed of the
muscles, ligaments and ample adipose that makes up the lower half of my body.
Off to Target to find a pair in the picked over selection –
to snag a pack of Hanes Comfortsoft XL leggings – to check out – to hear the
sales associate say “$19.95 for these; can’t you find them cheaper elsewhere?”–
to the sanctity of my bedroom to try them on.
I expected to have to contort myself to get in them, but was
pleasantly surprised to have them slip on like a second skin – no, not as tight
as that They are “Comfortsoft” after all! And damn – are they comfortable! After
putting them on, I rummaged for a top that covered as much as possible. And now
– I’m all in! I see what all the fuss is about! They. Are. Delicious. Despite
what the haters (and they are legion) might think.
So, I’m sorry President Trump. Unlike your staff, I'm not held to your “dressing like a woman” mandate. The days of Suzie Homemaker in a
fitted frock, pearls and pumps, are long gone. I’ll dress to please myself. Sir, I
hope your staff will too. Because we are not defined by our bodies, our hips (ample or
not), our breasts or our uteri. Nor are we defined by our wardrobe. And we will not be restricted...by girdles or outdated dress codes or small-mindedness.
So say I!
So say we all!
Now, where can I find one of those cute pink "kitty" caps? I’m
pretty sure one would go great with my leggings!
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| Me in my new leggings...no, I've not lost my marbles. |
