Victory!

This morning I screwed up all my courage, did some sit-ups, and took on the Myer lingerie department for round two of the Great Bra-Shopping Smackdown! 2007. And, I am delighted to say, I won.

As I might have mentioned, I had my ass beat a few weeks ago when, dewy-eyed with optimism, I skipped blithely into that maze of lace and cotton and linoleum on a simple quest for bras. I had my ass beat severely. I'd forgotten, you see, how department store make me freak the fuck out when I'm feeling a little bit delicate. When I'm feeling a little bit delicate, I find something really sinister about the overly-cheery sales assistants, the confusing lay-out, the racks and racks of same and same again, the fluorescent lights, the piped music, the lack of fresh air. It's the same sort of feeling I get sometimes when I'm looking at twenty-something brands of toothpaste at the supermarket, most of which are made by the same two companies, or when I wander through the fruit and veg section to get to the checkout and realise that I can't actually smell anything. When the entire philosophy behind a physical space is overconsumption, and you're boxed in, removed from any organic sensory experience at all. That feeling.

So yes, I started freaking out almost immediately after walking in last time, but stubbornly I insisted on trying on underwear anyway, thinking that I could just get in and get out and not have to deal with it. I made my way through aisles and aisles of undergarments, and picked a few out that were pretty and that I could afford. And, oh my God. I had forgotten about the change rooms. Harsh lights, carpet, and three unforgivingly angled mirrors. I'm ambivalent on chunks of The Beauty Myth, particularly the idea that the patriachy is consciously subjugating women through the deliberate exploitation of body insecurities, but whoever designed these cells must truly hate women. Or at least, not realise that underwear, apart from being functional, is supposed to make a woman feel seductive.

Because when I try on intimate apparel - and if it's in the name, Myer, you might be able to take a few contextual hints - I want feel comfortable physically, but I also want to feel comfortable emotionally. Naomi, I am not subscibing to the hegemony of the male gaze when I say I want to feel desirable, okay? It's just that when I try on something that I may wear and buy, that will conceivably be the last thing revealed to someone else before my own skin, I want to fleetingly feel as beautiful and powerful as I might feel in the eyes of a lover. "Fuck the hierachy" would be my motto any day, but in this case I gladly would substitute the male gaze for the overtly critical female gaze, the one that eviscerates any romantic notions of desirability and picks up on flaws - and magnifies them - instead.

In fact, I would argue that the female gaze - especially in the case of self-regard - is more overtly objectifying of women than the male. In that change room, under glaring lights and with nowhere to turn, I became an object - a distorted mish-mash of forms, of legs and arms and breasts and belly divorced from any sense of self and subjected to relentless scrutiny. And if clothing really is as much about affect as function, you fucked up, Myer, because I just cannot imagine that this is a good business model. What custom do you have to gain from making women feel like shit? Do you think the more you send women scurrying out in despair, the more they will buy thinking that if they just pay enough now they can avoid the ordeal for a while? Because I just don't think it works like that. As soon as I earn enough to buy boutique lingerie for everyday, and not just Best Knickers, I'm outta here. You've been warned.

Ahem. Anyway, I was about to give up and leave in a huff when it occurred to me to utilise Myer's sole advantage over other shops - middle-aged "fitters", invariably no-nonsense, querulous women who will feel you up briskly, snatch away whatever lace confection you are holding with shake of the head, and return with something in a different size that only looks vaguely like your original garment but fits like a glove. And that is exactly what happened. Which is how I came to possess two identical bras, one navy blue with cream polka-dots, one cream with navy blue, with their respective matching ruched boy-leg knickers.

As I was leaving, the women who had fitted my smiled at my choice and said, "The one you had before is pretty, but it isn't doing many girls any favours. Now, that one is flattering, and you almost have a 1940s look about you, so you'll have that sailor-girl feel in it." And I could have cried I was so grateful to be reassembled from my various parts and made coherent and individual again. Hello, my name is Jess, and I am not a collection of blemished and misshapen limb-shaped lumps - I am a sailor girl.

Anyway, despite my totally unneccesary detour through the philosophical angst invoked by consumption and aesthetic facticity, I consider the expedition a triumph! (Leaving aside that it was a triumph defined by an act of consumption...) Most importantly, now there will be no more underwire poking into underarms, no more stretched straps, no more warped and lumpy cups from over-washing. Yes, friends, tomorrow will be a new day! Now, does anyone know any sailor boys?