One morning after I dropped my oldest son off at his one-hour music class, I headed to the mall. I never imagined that's where I'd end up when I first pulled away from the curb, especially since I can't bear shopping for clothes. But as I dodged rush hour traffic and turned up the road leading to the local mall, I realized I wanted to buy a girdle.
I'm not an obese woman, but since my second child was born, I've been asked about 5 times if I were pregnant. Three of those times were by my mother, and the other two by my aunts, but the point remains. They were only the people who didn't mind holding their tongues. I can think of countless others who politely disguised their wonder by asking, "Do you plan on having more children?" Or I'd catch them staring at my belly, counting the months in their head and then saying, "So, when's the next one?"
Vanity has never been my burden. This was partly because I was always an athletic, fit person. In high school I played two varsity sports. In college I danced. After college I ran around constantly with work and multiple activities, always staying busy. Weight was never an issue, until I started dating the man that would be my husband. Lounging around with a boyfriend did make me thicker, but once I went to grad school and started being active again I returned back to my average size.
And I was attractive with a unique sense of style. True, my mother always complained that I went out the house without ironing my clothes, and my sister hated my hairstyles, but by all accounts I was pretty cute. If I worked harder and consistently wore makeup, I'd be prettier I guess, but I was certainly lovely in my 20s. If I was ever without a boyfriend, it was usually by choice, not by lack of attention.
Instead, my ego was directly connected to my intellectual and professional achievements. Coming from a working-class family, getting into an Ivy League school was important. Having my small production company featured nationally on the newscast of a major broadcast networks was a crowning achievement. Being awarded a full-tuition fellowship to one of the most selective business school program in the country was exhilarating. A daily make up regimen was not. Working hard on my appearance meant that I wasn't working hard on something else that really mattered to me. I was bold and witty and fun, and I knew that any man worth having derived pleasure from my dynamic personality.
My husband enjoyed my audacity and unconventionality. A bright, hard-working, congenial man, he and I married the day after my 28th birthday. He had seen me win awards and lose control over my bowels. (Gross, but true. And this was before we even got engaged, God bless him.) He knew my best and my worst and still loved me.
A girdle was a sign of less progressive times. It's what I'd watch my stay-at-home mother struggle into when I was little, after having multiple children. She was bound by that confining garment, keeping her tied down, in her place. It was something I never considered doing, lest feeling like I'd fallen into a trap. I'd also never thought I'd stay at home with my children this long, or not be active in a career. Nor did I think I'd ever wash dishes so much that my hands would be chapped. Who I was or who I thought I would be changed drastically with children (even more so perhaps, with two C-sections), and I'm doing things I never thought I'd do. And I'm not doing the things I always dreamed of.
I polled some of my good girlfriends about the underbelly, if you will, of their figures. Some of my New York friends had a pair of Spanx or two, some had none. But my friends from the South have had one (or more) since they were teenagers, even though they were slim. "Every proper woman in the South has a few!" said my Louisiana amiga. And she poo-poos the more contemporary term (or more appropriately, brand) "Spanx" over the word "girdle." "'Girdle' gives you the image of what can be done before and after some good foundation."
Maybe that's exactly what I was looking for on my impromptu ride to the mall. After so long of feeling ungrounded, I needed a good foundation. My life had veered in a direction that was unexpected and foreign to me and my confidence needed as much of a lift as my belly. With the exception of the general category of "being a good person," everything I took pride in - my career, my talent, my ability to hold an engaging conversation - doesn't matter in my daily life. With my oldest son having special needs, I, along with my husband, made the choice to stay at home to fight for, facilitate and manage his therapies for a few years in order to get him on the right track. (Believe you me, that is a full-time job. And while I'm currently freaking out that our savings are dwindling due to therapies for our son, I thank God that we are in a position where my husband has a great job so that I could even make that choice.) While I was clear about my responsibilities as a mother, I discovered I was no longer the individual I knew and loved. I never thought a loss of self-esteem could be a stay-at-home mother's occupational hazard.
So I bought the girdle. And I love it. On a night out, it makes me feel more poised, stronger, and a shade of vivacious woman I once was. Clearly, I'm not toting around two small children with me on those nights out, so that could contribute to that burdenless feeling. Still, I think the girdle is the big factor. I'm voluptuous, not chunky, there's a sparkle in my eye, I laugh at instead of being irritated by my husband's jokes, and I make a few ones myself. I am me.
And when I peel the girdle off at the end of the night at the doorstep of our home, hurry past the pile of dishes glaring at me from the kitchen, creep past my son's room and pray he gives me at least 3 hours before he wakes up, yet again, in the wee hours of the morning, cloak myself in my baggiest sweats, and then curse myself for staying out so late when I have to be alert and engaged with the kids the next day, I exhale relief and inhale utter anxiety. But before we drift asleep, Hubby and I giggle a bit about the night's festivities, and I smile thinking about the girl who was me earlier in the evening. I pray, sometimes with great despair, that I will see her more often, with or without girdle. And I have to figure out how.
Welcome to The Overeducated Housewife.
I polled some of my good girlfriends about the underbelly, if you will, of their figures. Some of my New York friends had a pair of Spanx or two, some had none. But my friends from the South have had one (or more) since they were teenagers, even though they were slim. "Every proper woman in the South has a few!" said my Louisiana amiga. And she poo-poos the more contemporary term (or more appropriately, brand) "Spanx" over the word "girdle." "'Girdle' gives you the image of what can be done before and after some good foundation."
Maybe that's exactly what I was looking for on my impromptu ride to the mall. After so long of feeling ungrounded, I needed a good foundation. My life had veered in a direction that was unexpected and foreign to me and my confidence needed as much of a lift as my belly. With the exception of the general category of "being a good person," everything I took pride in - my career, my talent, my ability to hold an engaging conversation - doesn't matter in my daily life. With my oldest son having special needs, I, along with my husband, made the choice to stay at home to fight for, facilitate and manage his therapies for a few years in order to get him on the right track. (Believe you me, that is a full-time job. And while I'm currently freaking out that our savings are dwindling due to therapies for our son, I thank God that we are in a position where my husband has a great job so that I could even make that choice.) While I was clear about my responsibilities as a mother, I discovered I was no longer the individual I knew and loved. I never thought a loss of self-esteem could be a stay-at-home mother's occupational hazard.
So I bought the girdle. And I love it. On a night out, it makes me feel more poised, stronger, and a shade of vivacious woman I once was. Clearly, I'm not toting around two small children with me on those nights out, so that could contribute to that burdenless feeling. Still, I think the girdle is the big factor. I'm voluptuous, not chunky, there's a sparkle in my eye, I laugh at instead of being irritated by my husband's jokes, and I make a few ones myself. I am me.
And when I peel the girdle off at the end of the night at the doorstep of our home, hurry past the pile of dishes glaring at me from the kitchen, creep past my son's room and pray he gives me at least 3 hours before he wakes up, yet again, in the wee hours of the morning, cloak myself in my baggiest sweats, and then curse myself for staying out so late when I have to be alert and engaged with the kids the next day, I exhale relief and inhale utter anxiety. But before we drift asleep, Hubby and I giggle a bit about the night's festivities, and I smile thinking about the girl who was me earlier in the evening. I pray, sometimes with great despair, that I will see her more often, with or without girdle. And I have to figure out how.
Welcome to The Overeducated Housewife.
