Brief Grief Re-butt-al


What follows is a response to an essay which ran last month in which Jeremy Hanna details the brutality of male skivvies. After experimenting with designer briefs, he says it's back to the "not-so-tighty whities" for him.
Dr. tRuth who hides behind a fake name because...well, you'll see says until Jeremy has walked a mile in her brassiere he should quit whining.

Women are justifiably Blass-é about Jeremy's problem with his gotchies. Unless he has ventured into the truly torturous wearing of women's undergarments, the man has no concept of real agony.

Oh for the simple choice between small, medium and large. And if only women did not have to view these garments with an eye to interpret an audience's definition of "visually interesting." Let's not forget the fabric range rayon, cotton, silk, satin, polyester, whatever

Why, just last week, Dr. tRuth was struggling to adjust the waistband of her size 2 utility-wear to align with the stretch marks beneath her bulging belly; this after valiantly winning the war to exorcise the metal support, bloodletting her left breast, that was escaping an overeager bra laundered once too often.

As a prospective client rounded the office corner, Dr. tRuth's sweaty fat creases caused an audible elastic snap that drew attention to the size C marlin spike in her left hand. As her left breast now hung somewhat lower than the right, it impeded her efforts to tastefully yank the now unanchored shoulder straps back into place, while explaining that the whalebone-wannabe was in actual fact a tool for removing deeply rooted computer screws. Plausibility be damned; this was not intended to be a public moment.

The real conundrum comes from the variations in our anatomy that have not been allowed for in the creation of what the British so aptly call "smalls."

NO WOMAN IS COMPLETELY SYMMETRICAL. Of course, women SUSPECT that undergarments are not built or designed by women, and have long been marketed only as restraining devices to keep us firmly in our place, regardless of where our water weight has settled this month.

Corsets? Garters? Hosiery? Ever try to put any of these things on while still damp from the shower, Jeremy? But that's a whole other issue that Dr. tRuth, eschewing the obvious glamour factor, will ad-dress some other day.

It's tough enough to have to contemplate the possibilities of the metric system overtaking our size variations in both lower and upper dedlicates; we'd be grateful for the opportunity to struggle with such easy decisions as small, medium and large, since for us the real struggle begins at home, in a dark room with no tourists, mirrors or assistance for the back latches that work easily only in the back seats of older model cars with overeager swains.

At least we, as women, have the last laugh. Having made the decision of support-panelled, hip-hugging, spandexed ultra under-pant liner, complemented by the ever-deceitful, less-than-subtly padded 38-B black satin, well-adjusted-in-the-straps to create that "breasts just under the chin" look to sell to our audience; the viewing of the uncontained flesh that lurks beneath these garments is often responsible for the well-known statistic that women outlive men.

To appease male vanity, we report that "they died in the saddle."
Women know, however, that these men are simply victims of boudoir-view heart attacks.

© Copyright by POINT, 1996
Last modified 5/9/96