Humor | Women | Underwear

Why is My Underwear so Uncomfortable?

My Bras are Plotting Against me

It’s hard being a woman. We have to put up with a lot. The pay gap that some people insist isn’t really there. Systemic disadvantages in the workplace. The bulk of the housework at home and at work. Child care.

And what is our reward for all this?

Uncomfortable underwear, that’s what.

Bras

Recently I’ve started to resent having to wear a bra. I think it’s to do with working from home and generally being more of a slob around the house. I’m writing this in my dressing gown.

When I do have to put a bra on to go out, they are increasingly uncomfortable. The shoulder straps, though broad, dig in, and the underwire chafes my skin. I don’t understand why we need underwires. I’m sure they weren’t in every single bra back in the eighties.

The only valid reason I can fathom for an underwire is so that aliens can use it as an antenna to contact me. That’s never happened, so I’m against them. At least they don’t give us cancer anymore.

I used to take all this bra-wearing in my stride, but now I’m beginning to resent it. I buy bras fitted properly at the posh lady bra shop, so they should be comfortable. Either I’m getting much fatter working from home, or I’m just not used to wearing proper underwear anymore.

A mother’s group lady I knew hated bras. She refused to wear them at home and wouldn’t answer the doorbell because she didn’t want to put on a bra. Mind you, she said she walked about naked at home most of the time too, so there was a bit of a theme going on.

Another friend was accused of flirting with her best friend’s boyfriend because of the lack of a bra. The best friend arrived, uninvited and unexpected, with her boyfriend in tow. After a cup of tea and a chat, she accused my friend of going sans bra on purpose to seduce her man. What? Uninvited? Unexpected? Her own home?

It’s not only having to wear a bra that irritates me. It’s the mechanism. I don’t know when bras got so hard to do up. When I was younger, they were much easier, but my bust was smaller then. My bras are of the three hook variety. They drive me mad.

I can usually get two of the damn hooks done up, but the third one always evades me. I have to decide whether to give up and hope it doesn’t spring apart at some inopportune moment in the day or struggle on. It’s like a game between me and the bra. If you get two hooks done up, then one of the first two pops open. It’s very annoying.

Wearing a bra does have one advantage, though. I can put things in it. At the end of a bra-wearing day, as I take it off with relief, all sorts of things pop out, and not just my boobs. Tissues, credit cards, keys, lipsticks, items I’ve confiscated from the dogs all fly out and land somewhere on the bedroom floor.

My partner finds it very amusing, but I have lost quite a lot of lipsticks that way. I’ll probably find them when we move.

Sports bras

Not only do we get to spend our hard earned cash on bras, but if we want to keep healthy, we have to buy a particular type of bra. The dreaded sports bra.

Regular sports bras are bad enough, but the all in one sports bras are a special kind of hell. You have to be a contortionist to get them on. Too big, and the damn thing is too loose to stop your boobs bouncing. The right size and the double layers get all tangled up, and I strangle myself.

And then there are the inserts. You know the things, the weird shaped pieces of foam that are magically meant to stop your boobs from leaping about. It’s all good with the bras until you wash them, which is frequently. After all, they are sports bras and get sweaty. Then it’s a struggle getting the foam things out ready for the wash.

It’s another hassle to get them back in again. If I can find the bloody things, that is. They are usually ‘in a safe place,’ or one of the dogs has run off with them. My partner finds all sorts of things buried in the garden, including underwear.

Usually, there is a tiny hole to poke the foamy bit through. I poke and pull and eventually get the darn thing straight. As soon as I’ve got the bra on again, the insert has folded itself in half again. Off with the bra and start again. It’s a bloody pain in the arse.

Tights

I’m free from the tyranny of tights at the moment because I’m not working in an office, and it’s summer. Back when I was working in an office, they drove me mad. First of all, they are expensive and don’t last. Always snagging or getting holes.

Leaving for work and getting home involved a strange dance with the dogs. I would run backward in a slightly bent over pose, my bag held protectively over my legs chanting, “Mind mummy’s tights. Good boys. Mind mummy’s tights.”

When I have to put on a pair of tights, the situation demands a sequence of complicated yoga poses that my body isn’t entirely on board with. I’ve never been the most flexible person. My partner can attest to this. I’ve had to manage his expectations about how bendy I am in the boudoir, which is not very bendy at all.

My sporadic visits to yoga unfailingly involve the teacher thinking I don’t understand the instructions. I do. I just can’t do the pose without a mountain of cushions, blocks, and straps. Maybe I should try that in the boudoir.

I also object to buying tights for the extra tall woman even though I am only five feet tall. If I don’t, the crotch is three inches lower than it should be, and I’m doomed to waddle about all day. Where do the real extra tall women buy their tights? Maybe a special internet site that I don’t know about.

And don’t get me started on the size of the waistband. I’m not skinny anymore like I was in my twenties, but I’m not that big either. And the waistband is really tiny and strangles my insides. I’m sure it’s a Health and Safety risk. I wonder how I’d get on writing up as a work hazard?

Don’t be taken in by the glamorous picture, they are bloody uncomfortable, expensive. One false move and that’s $15 down the drain.

Knickers

I’m OK with knickers on the whole. Except when people call them panties, which is creepy and makes me think of Uriah Heep type perverts sniffing their fingers. Or Mr. Collins.

Day to day knickers, all good. Lacy fancy ones with a matching bra, a bit scratchy. And thongs, no. If they are comfortable, I feel like I’m running about naked and unhygienic. If they are posh and lacy, it’s like having a scratchy worm trying to crawl up your bottom. No thank you.

Final thoughts

My underwear angst is exacerbated by most of my good stuff being in storage due to my house sale being interrupted by redundancy. The small amount I retained to ‘tide me over for three months’, is disintegrating after ten months. I should buy more, but I’m too stingy.

I don’t think age helps either. I’m getting much grumpier as time goes on. Working from home makes me even worse.

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