8 Kate Meyer-Currey
Life is like underwear: change is good (especially when you grew up in the eighties)
My teenage years were full of underwear-related epic fails. I was harassed and shamed by Mr Bra Strap, Mr VPL, Mr Camel Toe and Mr Sanitary Towel: a gang of misfits that I hated with a passion unabated today. They first entered my life in the eighties when aged eleven I hit puberty, and bits, bums, and boobs (which I much preferred to keep private) became public property. I yearned for the simplicity of my seventies childhood: vest, knickers, socks or tights, job done. It began with bras. Shopping for them was hell, with family in tow making bright conversation. Worse: you had to get measured by clammy-handed assistants and try the bastards on. At school everyone could see your bra through your white blouse, and dirty-minded boys tried to twang your straps. Vic and Bob’s Bra Men had it down! Now I’m fifty-odd; my boobs sag but they’re happily adjusted to underwires, plunge and cougar colours. No more white or beige! And if their straps show, so what? At least they’ve gained the confidence to let it all hang out! My teenage knickers were literally pants: my big, crusty school ones (M&S – was there anything else?) went with me to uni. They got washed in the sink (sorry if that’s gross) because the campus laundry was infested by a pervy porter who sniffed my friend’s tights.
