I’ve always taken a “comfort first” attitude toward clothing. I supposed I would outgrow my disdain for pantyhose and other constricting items as I moved into adulthood, but just the opposite has happened. I will contend that bras have their place, but they’re the first garment to be shed when I bust (pun intended!) through the front door. My maiden voyage on the “SS Foundation” occurred some years ago. I attended a work function wearing a “body shaper” under my dress. Like magic, it sculpted the area between my boobs and my knees into an hourglass.
I couldn’t breathe, but that turned out to be the least of my problems. During the 15-minute intermission, every woman in attendance made
a beeline for the restroom – a veritable throng of ladies clamoring for two measly stalls. Wrestling oneself in and out of a body shaper takes however long it takes, even if a full-blown mutiny is in progress on the other side of the stall door. That day, I decided foundations have their place, too. Like the trash can. Or the donation bin at Goodwill. (You’d be surprised what they will accept, as my friend Murisopsis discovered.) Without further ado, two lingerie parodies: Bras à la Emily Dickinson and Foundations à la Dorothy Parker:
Bras are the things with tethers
stitched to sturdy cups
that work together eighteen hours
to hold our hooters up
Lending them support and form,
feats they managed for themselves
when we were in our teens
Still, they feel like prison walls
around our lady shapes,
who, yoked in airless Spandex yearn
for evening’s sweet escape
Shapers pinch you;
Corsets can pop;
Girdles cinch you
but make muffin-top.
Comfort waists aren’t;
I’d rather look fat.
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