I bought some new undies today.
No, no, just wait...it will all make sense.
On the trip I discovered that my magical underwear was all too big, rendering it significantly less magical. Well, completely un-magical, to be honest. So today I just couldn't stand it anymore, and I went out to purchase some ladies' unmentionables.
I'll be upfront and say that the new ones are not magical. Magical undies cannot be ordered up on demand like a Big Mac at a drive-thru. Like Wonder Woman's bracelets, they have to be procured via otherworldy means--passed down from the gods or discovered like the Holy Grail. You never just walk into a store and purchase the magic. However, today I was more than happy to settle for some delicates that fit properly. The magic can wait.
So I'm at the store, and I'm sorting through all of the polka dots and stripes and little ribbons and ruffles and whatnot--you know, pretty much any cute little thing that a cartoon character might wear--and I started thinking about the moment that the dainties became magic, the period when they actually became powerful enough to turn me into a SuperHero.
I was in the last year of writing my dissertation. I had been back from the UK for almost a year; Mr. Fox had come and gone and left a trail of destruction in his wake; people on my dissertation committee got irrevocably ill or passed away; I was uncertain of any kind of funding for that year, and all I wanted to do was finish and get out. That last year was so, so, so intense that I barely remember it. Any of it. And I remember everything. But one of the parts that I do remember is The One Thing That Will Make It All Better.
Now Charlotte and I have talked about this a lot over the years we've known each other, since she's the only other person I've found who has an inherent understanding of The One Thing That Will Make It All Better. And it's exactly what it sounds like: when bad shit goes down, or when there is a complete and total disaster, or life is spiraling out of control, sometimes the clouds part, and the universe reveals to you The One Thing That Will Make It All Better. And the deal is, there's just One Thing. And nothing else will do.
Sometimes this One Thing is reading Pablo Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair over and over. Sometimes it's eating nothing but gas station slushies for a week. Or re-organizing the clothes in the closet by shade according to location on the Color Wheel. Charlotte once called me up after having been to all the stores around her town looking for the perfect rose-scented candles. Because at that time, she knew that having her entire apartment smell like roses was The One Thing That Will Make It All Better. We both understood this phenomenon deeply and stood by it. Because when there's only One Thing, what else is a girl gonna do?
So that last year writing my dissertation, with the world seemingly crashing down around my ears, I was in my bedroom with the French doors and big bay windows when it suddenly hit me: Vintage Underwear. That was it--the solution to all my troubles--wearing vintage-style underwear. The One Thing That Will Make Everything Better.
I changed right away, and pretty much every day after that, as soon as I got home, I took off my clothes and changed into some pin-up style foundation garments--provided I wasn't already wearing them under my clothes--and that's how I went about my business at home. While I leaned towards the 1940s-50s, I really ended up anywhere from the 1920s-60s. So at any given moment at home, I'd be wearing a late 1920s, maybe early 30s camisole and tap pants--black, with pink lace accents and a little pink bow between the seamed cups of the camisole. Or a 1950s crinoline petticoat with a cage bra and an old-school, girdle-style garter belt and stockings. Or a white full slip a la Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. And rather than leave you with the impression that every second when I was at home, I was just some slob sitting around in her underwear, I need to note that I was also always accessorized. I wore make up and did my hair. I selected the perfect heels and wore them around the house. So it was just like I was going-out presentable, only I didn't have clothes on. Somehow clothes would have seemed fake, like a costume, but what was underneath...that was real.
And I noticed something happen. No matter what crazy forces are at work in her life, a girl stands up a little straighter while wearing an amazing bra. She can let go and relax a little more when she's in a 1960s aqua chiffon peignoir set. And when you're writing your critical theories in a slip and stockings and a garter belt and heels, there's an edge that creeps into your arguments that dares the readers to try to find fault, and a confidence that they won't be able to, no matter how hard they try. The transformation was amazing. So as soon as I got home, I was no longer a harried, heartbroken, destitute graduate student who just couldn't catch a break. I was Miss O'Brien from the steno pool, bright as a button and with just enough pluck to make it in this business after all! I was the mousy-librarian-by-day/brilliant-novelist-by-night (publishing under a pen name of course)--the quiet, unassuming woman who went to the library each day and took secret pleasure being the person to check out her own books to the patrons, knowing they would never in a million years believe that she was the author. I was I was a Jane Russell-style heroine who may be a show girl but still isn't going to take any of your guff, ya see?, so you better straighten up, mister, or take the ShoeLeather Express right outta here! That happened for months.
It was powerful. It was magic. It was underwear.
So back to today, I'm shopping, and I'm contemplating the cutest pair of pink-and-white gingham bikinis with a lettuce-edge ruffle, navy ribbon band, and a little pink bow in the back, and I remember the power of the dainties to transform everyday life. Or just the plain ol' power in general, and no one knows where it's coming from, since no one can see. No one knows that your joie de vivre is coming from a red-and-while polka dot demi bra and pants with turquoise ribbon accents, the set that looks a little more like a circus outfit than foundation garments. No one knows that the source of your sass is a black mini-petticoat with flapper fringe. All they know is that the joie de vivre or the sass or the resolve or the mystery or the whatever is present. And that is awesome. That is a force to be reckoned with.
But then, still right in the middle of the intimates section, I started thinking about the opposite: if underwear is the power, then what is the weakness? If these highly-mentioned unmentionables are what build a girl up and make her radiate mysterious qualities beyond the scope of normal human experience, then what is the thing that strips her of all that power, leaving her tiny and helpless as a newborn kitten? Because there has to be something, right? For every SuperHero, there must be a Kryptonite, yes?
I was legitimately stumped by this, and shopping or no, I couldn't let it go. I racked my brain in the middle of the jungle of four-ways of candy-colored bras and red and pink bustiers released just in time for Valentine's Day. Standing there with a pair of sporty, 1970s-style, heather-grey-and-fuschia-striped bikinis in one hand and a pair of cotton-candy-pink, retro, ruched hipsters in the other, it hit me so hard that I actually exclaimed, "OH!" loud enough for all of the sales associates and other shoppers and to hear.
I knew it. I figured it out. The exact opposite of The One Thing That Will Make Everything Better. The exact opposite of Magic Underwear. The thing that strips me of every ounce of power and sense and leaves me weak, defenseless, and unable to control my own actions. My Kryptonite.
"But what could do all of that?", you wonder. "And what strange nuclear waste dump or mystical natural wonder could spawn such a thing? How could such a substance exist? Is it truly possible?"
And yes, yes, yes...it is possible. Such a substance exists, and I have struggled in its horrifying grasp every night for the last eight weeks. What is it that I fear so intensely? What's my own personal Kryptonie?
This is what it is, my babies:
It's Ambien.
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