Post-Girdlehood

I've been thinking about girdles. As one does.

Throughout most of my childhood, Mom wore a girdle for dress-up occasions, which pretty much meant weekends--Saturday night out to dinner with Dad, Sunday morning and evening to church. I was asleep when they returned late on Saturday nights so missed the de-girdling, but the Sunday process remains indelibly carved into my memory. Despite a myriad of Sunday dinner tasks demanding her attention, Mom would clomp upstairs in her high heels and she'd be hollering as she went, "I just have to get out of this girdle!" A little bit later we'd hear the shout of relief and downstairs Mom would trot as her hands massaged her stomach and hips.

I identified in many ways with my mother. She was a woman; I'd become one too. That was clear. Strangely, however, I understood implicitly and absolutely that I would never pass into the realm of girdledom. I don't recall ever thinking about it consciously, certainly not ever asking about it. I just knew: Mom and her friends wore girdles. I and my friends would not. This was A Fact.

Except it turns out that it wasn't. Isn't. Because now there are "body shapers." I thought I was living in the post-girdle world, but post-girdlehood was an illusion.

Kind of like the day of Obama's inauguration, when I thought that a majority of Americans were genuinely, truly embracing his vision of a globally aware, environmentally concerned, social democratic society. An illusion.

Guess I'd better just hike up the girdle--excuse me--body shaper. But someday, someday, change is gonna come.