For nearly 20 years I was held captive by my magic knickers. I was in the grip of the worst case of Stockholm syndrome ever recorded.
It was like some kind of solo, self inflicted, daily bondage ritual but without a sexy Mr Grey to stand back and watch me wobble (thank god).
Every day I gathered up my belly fat and wrapped it in tight elastic, thus enhancing my muffin top (as everything was pushed upwards) and simultaneously immobilising my lower spine.
In fact, my spine took such exception to this modern day chastity belt (so called because you ain’t gonna be ‘gettin’ any’ in these bad boys) that I had to cut out the knobbly bit of seam at the back because it irritated my vertebra.
As I lay in bed this morning, reflecting upon how it feels to finally be a free woman, I started thinking about how underwear has changed in my lifetime. I reached adulthood in the era of the “Hello Boys!” Wonderbra ads and high profile page 3 glamour models, when the height of sexiness were stockings and suspenders or even worse hold-up stockings (which came with the promise of future varicose veins).
But how things have changed.
I read an article last year which said that 52% of Marks and Spencers bra sales were now ‘bralettes’. I consulted my Fonts of All Knowledge (the Lovely Girls) to find out what a bralette was. Apparently they are smooth, light weight, wire-free boob holders.
It seems that the young women of today are refusing uncomfortable underwires and allow their chesticles to roam free, unshackled by tight elastic and massive rows of hooks. Bras that provide plunging cleavage through scaffolding-supported uplift and chicken fillets are no longer de rigeur.
I can remember getting my first Wonderbra in the early 1990s. I thought that I was the bees knees. Every item of clothing that I bought was designed to show the world that I owned a Wonderbra. It was bloody uncomfortable but this did not diminish my overwhelming pride at having traffic stopping breasts.
I have the pleasure of sharing my life with the two Lovely Girls, one will be 18 in a couple of weeks and the other will be 17 a few weeks after. I have noticed that they are not in the least bit interested in Wonderbras or their ilk, preferring to opt for more comfortable and less restrictive underwear.
I recently quizzed them about their boob-related preferences and we got onto the subject of cleavage. It seems that the overwhelming view of the next generation, in my household at least, is that plunging cleavage is old fashioned and ageing. There is a time and a place for displaying your assets if you feel like it (such as a black tie event) but certainly not on a daily basis.
These fabulous young women take the view that they are not prepared to make their bodies uncomfortable for anyone and if boys want to get near them, then they can jolly well take them as they find them.
This view extends to high heels. I will never forget my first pair of white stilettos in 1987 that made me feel like Madonna, but my daughter went to her prom in a charity shop wedding dress that she died pink, hand painted and then teamed up with her favourite pink Doc Martens.
The future of womankind will be all the better for the next generation of bold young women and I am proud of my daughters and their friends for pointing out the stupidity of society’s expectations and refusing to engage with them. Like their great-grandmothers 100 years ago, who said ‘no’ to Victorian corsets and made the flapper dress acceptable, the young women of the 2020s will make life better for centuries of women to come.
And that brings me back to us, their mothers. It seems to me that if our body fat is such a problem that we need magic knickers to make us feel ok-ish about how we look, then we might be doing things wrong.
By entombing ourselves in tight elastic swaddling we are sending the message to our daughters that we don’t think that our bodies aren’t good enough; that they need controlling.
I hated my body so much that I was prepared to restrict the function of my spine in a vain attempt to disguise my body fat issue and look not-quite-so-fat. It was so normal to end my day with red wheals encircling my waist from where my magic knickers had dug into me that I didn’t even think about it.
I don’t care what anyone says, it is tough being a woman. My friends and I are Boudiccas, going into battle on a daily basis; we are business leaders, mothers and warriors. We inhabit a world that isn’t designed for creatures of our size. A world that is too big for us.
We drive cars that are more likely to kill or maim us because they were designed for male crash test dummies and we own phones that are too big for our hands (if you haven’t read it then I recommend “Invisible Women – Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men” by Caroline Criado-Perez (Random House 2020)).
We work, run a home, provide emotional support for everyone around us and then do everything else in-between. If you add PMT, sore boobs, hot flushes, peri-menopusal symptoms so awful that you question whether you are pregnant and hormone headaches into this mix then it is no wonder that some days we look utterly exhausted.
As if all of this isn’t enough we are bombarded with images of unachievable physical beauty (which are invariably airbrushed to deceive us) and a diet and fitness industry that makes us false promises.
Yet despite the trials of modern life we have the extraordinary privilege of being mothers and raising the next generation of feisty females. These young women who can make us sob with pride or weep with despair and for whom we would lay down our lives without thinking, they are our legacy. However I can’t help thinking that they deserve more from us.
No matter what the media throws at our girls we, their mothers, are their role models. We are the ones that they see on a daily basis being unhappy with our bodies but still having a “treat”, whether chocolate, crisps or alcohol, because we are feeling sad or stressed. We are the ones that they see attempting the latest fad diet.
I can still remember my mum doing the F-plan diet in the early ‘80s. I can see the red lettered book cover as if it was in front of me now; and the authors’ name? Audrey Eyton. After 40 years I didn’t even have to look it up. I was 10 and that image has stayed with me.
I have given my daughters missed messages for decades. I’m the one woman that they can always count on and the woman that I want them to aspire to be like and respect. How can I be that person if I’m subliminally selling them the notion that my body isn’t good enough and that I’m ok with living my life being ashamed of my body? The body that gave them life.
I have a duty to set my girls on their life-paths free of the shame of hating their bodies and with a better relationship with food that I have had in the past. I want them to see me as strong and fit, loving my body for its strength and reliability, being in good health into very old age and not needing magic knickers to restrain my belly.
So let’s set fire to our magic knickers, take responsibility for our body fat and do some squats – our lower backs will thank us and our daughters will be proud.