Brief Grief Re-butt-al
BY DR. tRUTH
What follows is a response to an essay which ran last month in which Jeremy Hanna details the brutality of male skivvies. After experimenting with designer briefs, he says it's back to the "not-so-tighty whities" for him.Dr. tRuth 
who hides behind a fake name because...well, you'll see says until Jeremy has walked a mile in her brassiere he should quit whining.
Women are justifiably Blass-é about Jeremy's problem with his
gotchies. Unless he has ventured into the truly torturous wearing of
women's undergarments, the man has no concept of real agony.
Oh for the simple choice between small, medium and large. And if only
women did not have to view these garments with an eye to interpret an
audience's definition of "visually interesting." Let's not forget the
fabric range
rayon,
cotton, silk, satin, polyester, whatever
Why, just last week, Dr. tRuth was struggling to adjust the waistband
of her size 2 utility-wear to align with the stretch marks beneath her
bulging belly; this after valiantly winning the war to exorcise the metal
support, bloodletting her left breast, that was escaping an overeager bra
laundered once too often.
As a prospective client rounded the office corner, Dr. tRuth's sweaty
fat creases caused an audible elastic snap that drew attention to the size
C marlin spike in her left hand. As her left breast now hung somewhat
lower than the right, it impeded her efforts to tastefully yank the now
unanchored shoulder straps back into place, while explaining that the
whalebone-wannabe was in actual fact a tool for removing deeply rooted
computer screws. Plausibility be damned; this was not intended to be a
public moment.
The real conundrum comes from the variations in our anatomy that have
not been allowed for in the creation of what the British so aptly call
"smalls."
NO WOMAN IS COMPLETELY SYMMETRICAL. Of course, women SUSPECT that
undergarments are not built or designed by women, and have long been
marketed only as restraining devices to keep us firmly in our place,
regardless of where our water weight has settled this month.
Corsets? Garters? Hosiery? Ever try to put any of these things on
while still damp from the shower, Jeremy? But that's a whole other issue
that Dr. tRuth, eschewing the obvious glamour factor, will ad-dress some
other day.
It's tough enough to have to contemplate the possibilities of the
metric system overtaking our size variations in both lower and upper
dedlicates; we'd be grateful for the opportunity to struggle with such
easy decisions as small, medium and large, since for us the real struggle
begins at home, in a dark room with no tourists, mirrors or assistance for
the back latches that work easily only in the back seats of older model
cars with overeager swains.
At least we, as women, have the last laugh. Having made the decision
of support-panelled, hip-hugging, spandexed ultra under-pant liner,
complemented by the ever-deceitful, less-than-subtly padded 38-B black
satin, well-adjusted-in-the-straps to create that "breasts just under the
chin" look to sell to our audience; the viewing of the uncontained flesh
that lurks beneath these garments is often responsible for the well-known
statistic that women outlive men.
To appease male vanity, we report that "they died in the saddle."
Women know, however, that these men are simply victims of boudoir-view
heart attacks.
