There is a wonderful uselessness to pretty underthings that sometimes appeals to me. An unnecessary-ness. A superfluous fanciness. To make matters more conspicuously impractical, they are often uncomfortable, too, as one always seems to learn the hard way. Then, too, he fancier they are, the closer their kinship to the realm of panties in my mind; that comical, ultra-feminine diminutive. Hard to say it with a straight face, even, and yet, once in a while, so pretty. So satisfying to secretly (or not so secretly) be wearing.
I usually wear black, white, or tan cotton underwear. I am no devotee of “fancy” underthings…but I can appreciate them now and then. Picked up this gauze and satin number from Calvin Klein on a whim one day. Pink, too.
One feels rather badass in such underwear. With or without pants. Perhaps because—at least when they are novel, strange—in your physical experience of them you are more conscious of your body – cannot forget about your body, as it is otherwise so easy to do. Perpetual awareness of the body affects movement and attitude, for me almost always in a positive way.* This really goes for any physical novelty, high-heels being another good example (if you don’t wear them all the time), or just any piece of apparel in which you feel different, like something new, like you have a new shape, or a new texture (a new haircut has a similar effect, I think).
*If I am self-conscious about some part of my body on a given day I perhaps hope to forget about it, admittedly. I am rarely self-conscious about anything but acne, though, and as I get older I am less self-conscious and more just…cranky. How I hate acne.
Channeling Scarlett
If you haven’t ventured into the land of unnecessarily pretty underwear, I urge you to consider a trip. Novelty is powerful in the game of style.
x
