Tag: Confessions

The Secret

I’ve often wondered: What’s the secret? I found out the other day. In need of a bra for a low cut dress, I took it to one of their stores—you know the one with the sexy lingerie. The sales clerk checked the front of my dress and said I needed a plunging bra. She handed me a few: A fully padded push-up, demi, semi-padded, an unpadded one that hooked in the front, and a bustier; she thought I should try on just for fun.

Since I wore push-ups in the 1970s, I started with that one. I slipped my dress over it and looked in the mirror. I laughed. My breasts spilt out of the top like two globes, which hadn’t seen the sun in forty years. The lyrics, blinded by the light, silicone sisters and boulder on my shoulder by Manfred Mann came to mind. Believe me, they were practically on my shoulders. The demi was perfect, not as much spillage as the push-up. “But not enough plunge,” the salesclerk said, examining how it looked with my dress. Next came the semi-padded. It worked, and I put it in my buy pile. No problem with the bralette. It was also a go. I took the unpadded one with the front hook from its hanger. I wore them in the ‘70s, so I knew I would buy it if I could get the clasp open. I had to put on my reading glasses to see what I was doing wrong. While I struggled with it, two young women were having a fashion show in the changing area. They came out of their cubicles, strutted around in various kinds and colour bras, critiquing each other. “I don’t like that colour on you.” “The pink is much better.” “Leopard is not for you.” “I like the coral.”

Okay, I’m open-minded and I’m not old. I don’t consider 60s old. But as they were commenting about each other’s bras, I couldn’t help but think: What does it matter if pink is not your colour or you like coral. No one will see them. If they were thinking men—well I’m not sure about that. If I recalled, we had beige, black, white and pink. They never stayed on long enough for men to admire or mention. Maybe they did, and I can’t remember. But it seems the world is different in 2016. Women are no longer hiding or burning their bras. They’re proud of them and showing them off along with their cleavage. Maybe if I were in my 20s, I too would be particular about what colour bra looked good on me. And want to show off the ones I was about to buy.

Anyway, while they discussed colours and styles I was sweating and swearing and fighting with the front clasp on the bra. I’d gotten it on. Loved it, but I couldn’t get it off. I tried to pull it over my head; that didn’t work. In the ’70s they were so much easier. And what about a man removing a woman’s bra with the flick of a finger, does it still happen? If so, was there one nearby? Or Houdini. I could have used his help. Since I was alone, on went my reading glasses again. When I finally got it off, I realized that as much as I loved it, there was no way I wanted a bra I had to put on glasses to hook and unhook. It went in the no pile. Then came the for fun red and lacy bustier. I decided it was a definite possibility. But it turned out to be more work than I planned on doing to be sexy. By the time I got it on I would need a nap. And I think I hurt my back. So here’s what I found out about the secret. You either have to be an escape artist or have perfect eyesight

Out Of The Closet

“I’ve decided,” I said to a friend of mine. “It’s 2016 and I’m coming out of the closet.” Being a writer his eyes lit up. I knew what he was thinking: she’s been married for forty years, there’s a story here. I added: “Except for The Hand Maid’s Tale and Moral Disorder, I don’t like Margaret Atwood’s work. Neil Young is a great songwriter but a terrible musician. And Rush is the worse Canadian band ever.” I cringed and waited to hear that I was the most un-Canadian Canadian he’d ever met. But he agreed. Since it went well, I told more people. Strange enough they also agreed with me. Finally, I no longer had to grin and bear it when Neil Young came up in a conversation. I could say things like, “he really should have other people sing his songs they would sound a whole lot better.” I could also throw in, “green peas should be banned.” Then I thought, what if I didn’t stop at my thoughts and opinions? What if I took everything out of the closet?

What started with me speaking my mind turned into a trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond for purple hangers made by Joy. You know, Joy, the woman who invented a super duper mop in the 1980s. Hollywood made a movie about her life. Jennifer Lawrence did a good job playing her. Anyway, with ninety of her thin hangers now ready to keep my clothes from slipping to the floor, I began to remove everything out of the closet. At one point my husband stuck his head in the room, looked at all the clothes on the bed and asked, “What’s going on? Are you leaving me?” For some strange reason he always thinks I’m leaving him. But that’s another blog.

Once he left I went back to shifting the wooden and puffy satin hangers that took up too much space in my life. I soon found out closets are scary. You can never tell what’s lurking in them, like the hippie tops I found between my fitted blouses and suit jackets. Nine of them in various styles and colours. Sometimes things, like clothes and opinions especially on silent films, The Three Stooges and The Marx Brothers, are best kept a secret. So, I shoved the hippie tops behind the four off the shoulder, Madonna style sweaters and slammed the closet door.