Lingerie a bit longer

My underwear drawer has turned against me. Not in a mild, passive-aggressive way, like a washing machine that eats one sock at a time - no, it has become an outright bully. A lace-trimmed, silk-lined, underwired menace. Every time I open it, I hear the whispers:

“Oh, you still think you can pull that off?”
“Shouldn’t you be shopping in the ‘Support & Control’ section by now?”

Apparently, according to Wikipedia, the undisputed oracle of all things factual, lingerie is defined as undergarments designed to be “visually appealing or erotic.” A charming definition, really. But at 59, with the fast lane to 60 looming like a taxi on Vanguard Drive, it does feel a little… mocking.

Which brings me back to my drawers, both the wooden variety and the lacy rebellion within them. There’s a reason Victoria is not the only one who keeps secrets. My secret? My lingerie collection looks suspiciously like it belongs to a woman who is not a respectable, sensible, rule-abiding expat teacher. It looks like it belongs to someone who drinks mocktails with names like Forbidden Desire and has group chat with like-minded women discussing the finer points of dating and relationships in the 21st century. It looks like it belongs to - dare I say it? - a woman who doesn’t care much for what others think.

I don’t know what happened the last time I went on a panty run. One moment I was looking for practical, breathable cotton, and the next I was channeling Belle de Jour, prancing about the changing room in lace-trimmed wickedness that would make the HR department clutch their pearls. (And yes, pearls were involved. Don’t ask.)

But why should buying lingerie be slightly too naughty for us oldies? I refuse to let some invisible panel of prudish judges decide that the moment a woman hits a certain age, she must renounce lace and silk in favor of industrial-strength shapewear in “neutral” (read: depressing) shades of beige. Beige is not a color - it’s a resignation letter. It’s the shade of giving up. And I am not giving up.

Of course, society loves a well-behaved woman. A woman who dresses sensibly, speaks politely, and wears undergarments that provide full coverage and ample support. But I have spent decades playing by the rules, nodding along to expectations, making sure I was presentable and appropriate. Conformity is exhausting. It’s also wildly overrated.

I sometimes wonder what kind of example I’ve set for the young women who come after me. Did they see a woman who lived fully and freely, or one who carefully curated herself to fit within the lines? And if I’ve played it too safe all these years, is there still time to rebel?

Absolutely.

I will not go gently. I will go with push-up bras and satin slips. I will go with underwires strong enough to double as construction scaffolding. Or I will go without entirely, free under my abaya and oh so comfy. I will carry on with the help of  Yoga, and Peak Performance, and the occasional deep tissue massage. I will go as hard as I can, or as slow and lazy as I desire, for as long as I can, and I will do so with the unshakable conviction that a woman should wear whatever makes her feel good, be it lace, satin, or even (shudder) beige, or nothing at all...

And to my flesh-colored granny panties (I know you’re in there somewhere, lurking beneath the red satin and black lace like a well-behaved school teacher at an AGM, your time will come.

For now, you are set to mute. Belle is calling, and I must answer.