Return of the Girdle

I have vivid memories of watching my two older teenage cousins getting ready for a night out. Their hair in rollers, they took turns sitting in front of the vanity mirror in their mother’s bedroom, applying concealer, foundation, powder, blush, mascara, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and lipstick. Their bodies were encased in white nylon bras and white latex girdles, the latter extending from the waist to below the thighs, designed to hold in their voluptuous figures and hold up their nylon stockings.

By the time I was a teenager, pantyhose had superceded stockings, bras were being burned and the girdle had gone the way of the buggy whip. Not that I had much to hold in-- or up, for that matter; my figure was more Twiggy than Marilyn Monroe.

Fast forward a few decades to the return of the girdle. It started with control top stockings and then control top panties, with lycra substituting for the latex of yore. And then Spanxx came along with a well-publicized line of items to smooth and shape, targeted directly to the women of my generation. The same women who had escaped having to wear girdles at 16 were now at 36 or 46 or 56 buying the lighter-weight, more comfortable but still confining modern equivalents, a.k.a. “shapewear.”.

Certainly, there are times and places when one would want to have all of one’s “jiggly bits,” as Bridget Jones described them, smoothed and shaped, especially if being photographed is on the agenda. If you’re walking down the red carpet or down the aisle, or attending a high school reunion, then shapewear and false eyelashes make sense. But aside from these rare occasions, why would anyone want to wear tight “bike shorts” or a “long-line” undergarment that extends from just under the bust to a few inches above the knees.

A bra is one thing, providing embellishment as well as support. And a corset, while too confining for my taste, can be lovely enough to wear on its own, as seen in the recent designer fashion shows. But, really, how sensual is a layer of nylon and lycra against the skin? And how sexy is it to slip off a dress, and then have peel off the tight girdle beneath. Of course, since we live in a visual culture where image is paramount and the firm thighs, flat abs and pert buttocks of a teenage athlete are the ideal, who can blame us women for wanting at least the illusion of a Barbie body?

Blocked

Blocked, that's what I am. Blocked as in writer's block. The words that used to flow through me onto the page, the screen, have slowed to a trickle. No longer does the perfect sentence percolate up to the surface of my consciousness as I drive down the highway. No poems, however illogical, come to me in dreams. The days and nights of losing myself in the rhythm of language, when time and space collapse until only the words on the screen and my hands on the keyboard exist-- these are no more.

As one who came to the craft through journalism, I was trained to produce, on deadline, no matter what. Writer's block was never an option. Now, I teach writing, but no longer write, illustrating that horrible cliché that those who can't, teach. Although I have had my work published for several decades, I barely even journal. Of course, as an English teacher, I do still write: emails, lists, and, every couple of months, a new syllabus or three, not to mention corrections and comments on several dozen student papers each week.

I could blame the block on my day job, on my commute, on my dog, on my resolution to get in shape, all of which take time. Yet I have hours to spend watching "Angel" and "True Blood" on DVD or reading fashion magazines and browsing such shopping sites as Pixie Market. I even have material to work on: three different book projects, all on serious topics, all of which strike me as far too depressing. If I were to pick up any one of these again, the angst would drain me more than teaching four hours straight.

Perhaps the problem is that I am basically happy with my life by the sea. I have largely laid to rest the torments of the past and have little interest in digging them up again. Does one have to be tortured to create?

Actually, I'm a little embarrassed that what captures my attention now are colors and shapes: the sculptural folds of a garment, the play of light on the ocean outside my windows, the fun of pulling together a costume, the challenge of creating an apartment home that feels cozy rather than cramped. But compared to war, recession, health care reform, the fiscal nightmare in
Sacramento-- not to mention global warming-- my fascinations seem too, well, trivial. Frivolous.

If I could, I would write a book that was light and playful, warm and charming, one that would make a reader smile or even laugh, although I have no idea what the topic would be. The year I learned to party? But while I wait for inspiration, I'll just keep blogging