It's All About the Bosoms

This actual conversation with Thing 1 (7 years old) and Thing 2 (5 years old) took place tonight at a well-known lingerie store. To be more specific, it took place in a very long customer check-out line at said well-known lingerie store. A line made up of other customers. As in people. Who could witness this.

I take full blame for this conversation, by the way. I know my kids. I knew where this could lead.

To set the stage, on top of a table of drawers stood a mannequin, one that had “typical” female proportions but which sported a bra with very large cups.

Me (pointing out the bra-wearing mannequin to Thing 2):  Check that out. What do you think?

Thing 2:  That’s pretty, Mommy.

Me:  You’d need pretty big bosoms to fill out a bra like that.

Thing 2:  Yep. So, hey, when will I get my big bosoms?

Me:  Never.

Thing 2:  What? Why?

Me:  Just look at mine, baby girl. I’m sorry, it’s unlikely you’ll ever get big bosoms. Only little ones. Genetics is a pisser, isn’t it?

Thing 2:  So when will I get my little bosoms?

Me:  Not for a while. Probably not until you’re around thirteen.

Thing 2:  Hey!  Why won’t you let me get them right now?

Me:  Because I’m your mom, and I say so.

At this point, I noticed Thing 1 – who is a boy – feeling up some ultra-padded push-up bras that lay in a middle drawer.

Want to learn more about this bra? Head to victoriassecret.com.
Or ask Thing 1 about it. He probably felt one up just like it. 

Me:   Hey, hey, hey, quit feeling those up, kiddo.

Thing 1:  Quit doing what?

Me:  Just… put the bra down, please.

Thing 1:  What’s a bra?

Me:  That thing you’re holding. And all those other things in the drawers. Please stop touching them.

Thing 1:  But I like them. May I have one?

Me:  No, honey. Those aren’t for you. Unless there’s something you want to tell me. I won’t judge.

At this point, Things 1 and 2 started to discuss between themselves the various garments and their potential purposes. According to them, a garter belt hanging about 10 feet away was a short skirt. A sheer babydoll nightie was a dress for a little girl (Thing 2: “I really want one of these for my birthday, Mommy.”).

I would write that I’ve learned my lesson, and that from now on I won’t take them back to this store with me. However, that would be a lie. I’m taking them there with me from now on. Every time. Even when I don’t plan to buy anything. 

Angels in Lingerie (or Chicks in Skivvies)

Long ago, in a town far, far away, one of my four (yes, four) grandmothers asked me if I was offended by television ads showing pretty women in their skivvies. Their panties. Their lingerie, if you will. If I recall correctly, I looked at her, raised an eyebrow and very eloquently said, “Nope.”

I was probably 18 or 19 years old, not a knockout by any means but young, full of vigor and not about to let such silliness bug me. Plus, I knew that this grandmother – with whom I didn’t entirely get along – wanted me to affirm her belief that all women were put out by this nonsense of mostly naked women flouncing about on the Tee-Vee in front of our men’s easily distractible eyeballs. So, to be completely honest, even if I had found the ads offensive, I would have said I didn’t just to piss her off.

But the fact is, I really didn’t think anything of them. And I said so. After a bit of back and forth on this, my grandmother haughtily said to me, “Well, when you’re older, you’ll feel differently about it.” To which I replied, “Perhaps, perhaps not.”

I wish I could say that was that, but sadly my mind doesn’t simply let things go. Life would be so much easier if it would. I don’t hold grudges, but I do ponder things ad nauseum. Ad. Freakin’. Nauseum.

To this day, every once in a while when an underwear ad hits the screen, I’ll remember this exchange with my grandmother and find myself doing some very shallow soul searching, trying to determine if I have finally developed a problem with ladies prancing about – or dancing, or bouncing on a trampoline – in undies between my favorite shows. Frankly, the answer remains a pretty firm no.

Do I think I’m just super gorgeous and fabulous and these ladies can’t distract my honey from such hotness as I have to offer?  (Sorry, typing those words just made me snort with laughter. Excuse me.)  Of course not. I simply don’t have time to worry about it. I don’t have the energy to waste worrying about or competing with incredibly beautiful, tall, leggy models for my guy’s attention. I am who I am. I look how I look. My choice is to be happy with myself or not be happy with myself… but either way, I still am myself. I’d rather focus my energy on enjoying my life - and who I am - than on worrying about the mostly naked ladies on the telly being paid to sell underwear.

But as I said, once in a while, I still do find myself assessing my feelings about and reactions to these ads, particularly the Victoria’s Secret ones simply because they do walk that fine line between underwear ad and soft core porn.  My thoughts tend to fall along one of three paths, almost without fail.

1. Wow, those women really are stunning. I hope they appreciate how lucky they are to enjoy such beauty. Or really hotness. And to have ample chests. I suppose I shouldn’t envy that, since running would be more difficult with bigger boobs. But it would be nice to have cleavage, just once. Anyway, yay for them for being hot. You go, ladies!
2. Why are those women walking like that? Or should I say marching? They look like they’re stepping in something sticky and unpleasant… or perhaps picking their way through low tide. And why are they moving their hips so far back and forth? Are they trying to undo a wedgy? I don’t get it.
3. Damn! I could TOTALLY rock a pair of those angel wings!

I need a pair of wings like this. Putting them on my birthday wish list.

 And I could, couldn’t I?