On the importance of underwear

This post speaks to my European roots.  It has to do with clothing, not so much with the fashion behind clothing, but rather with the spirit behind our daily action of "putting something on".  And, of course, like everything else in my life, it has to do with infertility and loss.  If it seems like I am not concentrating properly, it is because I have three birds pecking at my computer.  This one here is Gracie, a very neurotic albino cockatiel.  She has an anxiety disorder.  It took her one year to come close to my computer, so I don't have the heart to chase her away.  

Underwear is special in that most of the time, it is not seen by the large public, the way boots or hats are. A nice thong will be hidden from view for anyone other than yourself and your significant other.  A lot like our souls, I like to think.  Only those very intimate with us can really get to see them, touch them, appreciate them.  Not to mention that, for most people, there will be many, many days when there is no one else out there to notice either thoughts or lingerie.  

In the infertile woman's soul, there are a lot of negative voices that speak volumes about the sense of being feminine, of being sexy, of belonging to the female half of the race.  I know for myself, when I was not getting pregnant and the whole village was, including my friend's cat, I heard the Voice (you remember the Voice) telling me that I perhaps should reconsider my gender identity, since duh, real women get pregnant and have babies.  Even real female cats do.  When I lost Adrian, I got another strong background chanting session from the Voice, who let me know that look, it is absolutely confirmed and without a doubt that I WAS NOT A REAL WOMAN!  

Poor MrH had to fight the Voice if he wanted to have his cute feminine wife back, because I had strong urges to wear ugly pants with granny underwear that did not match my bra.  I even bought granny underwear from Wall Mart, because I felt a strong need to match the briefs with the critical paragraphs in my head.  I don't need to tell anyone here what this kind of attitude does to one's sex life.  

After years of failing month after month at doing what the cat had no trouble doing in one night of feline passion, I have decided that I wanted the old me back, the feminine, elegant me.  I went back to my previous sexy lingerie and made myself wear it whether I felt like it or not.   I refused to leave the house if my bottoms and my bra did not match.  I insisted on wearing skirts and boots, a much more feminine look than the good old pants and loafers.  I accessorized.  I ironed.  I religiously put make up on even if I was planning on spending a whole Sunday in bed.  And every single day, I did my hair.  

Does this work?  It worked for me, and I suspect it would work for anybody.  How can a simple piece of fabric change the way we feel about ourselves?  It is there, at all times, as a reminder that no matter what the Voice might say at that particular time, there is one part, however small, that still believes that we are feminine, that we are worth taking the effort to give ourselves the best.  

For anyone who has had a recent negative test result, a failed IVF, a miscarriage, or who is struggling with the critical Voice comparing her to the cat, the cow or the pregnant sister in law, please take my advice, at least for a few days:  Wake up before noon.  Take a shower.  Do your hair.  Put mascara on.  Cover your dark circles with some concealer.  Spritz on some perfume if you wear it.  And by all means, wear the best, sexiest, most comfortable, most divine pair of underwear.