Me and My Bras
By Joe Acton
I don't think men should have to buy underwear. Wear it — yeah — we ought to wear it. But I don't think we should have to buy it. I don't exactly know who ought to buy it — but I do know it shouldn't be us.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not against underwear. Some of my best friends wear it all the time. And I try to set an example for my family by changing mine at least three times a week whether I need to or not.
But that's not the point. The point is that there's a social stigma to men buying underwear. Men just aren't supposed to be hanging around the underwear department. They are supposed to be hanging around sporting good stores and the showrooms of car dealerships. I know car dealerships have underwear departments because:
The salesman and I had just finished all the paperwork and the shiny new red Saab was just about mine. Sun roof, stereo — the whole works. I mean if you're looking at middle age and can't afford a divorce — get a new car. A red car. Redder the better. Or at least that's what the salesman told me and he ought to know, he'd been divorced twice and was working on his third.
So anyhow, I'd signed the deal and then he says, "Do you want a bra for her?"
I glanced around the showroom and said, "For who?"
"For the car! She'll look great in it." He looked at me like I had a rock for a brain.
Well, I'll admit, my Saab's got a nice set of headlights, but I didn't think it needed a bra. In fact, right up until that moment I didn't know the car wore underwear at all. Wasn't listed in the index of the owner's manual. I mean I knew I had to change the oil every 3,000 miles but nobody said anything about it wearing underwear.
"It's an option — it's a leather bra that fits over the front end and keeps the paint from getting dinged up — and it only costs $150," he explained.
Right. Well — cars aside — where I come from, a bra's not an option. It comes standard with the model. My mom said so: "Real men may not eat quiche, but nice girls do wear bras."
Always the bastion of progressive thought, my mom, but she had a point. I've seen a lot of invitations that say, "Black Tie Optional" but never one that said, "R.S.V.P., Bra Optional."
When it came to underwear, my mom knew her stuff. She sold it. Well, actually, in those days it was referred to as "Foundational Garments." Mom was a "personal representative" of Spencer Foundation Undergarments. It was like Tupperware (which she also sold) where you had parties and invited all of your friends over. Except in this case mom didn't pay me to go around and demonstrate how you burped the air out of the big bowls. I was the model.
You read right. Not a misprint. Every other Sunday during the summer of 1962, between 2 and 4 p.m. I was the neighborhood's model for the latest in long-line foundations for women.
Now don't get me wrong, the money was good. But after modeling a long-line bra or full-length girdle for your friend's mom you never really knew what the answer was going to be when you asked if their son could go camping with you. Fortunately, mom realized you could sell more Tupperware to the same women than you could girdles and I was back in the lid-burping business.
After that I avoided having anything to do with women's undergarments, except, of course, to periodically review the lingerie section of the Sears and Roebuck catalogue — purely professional interest, I assure you.
Anyhow, back to underwear shopping, your garden variety clothing store comes with two basic underwear departments: men's and women's. In the men's department all the underwear is hermetically sealed. The store knows that any of us Real Men who want to buy shorts (that's what Real Men call underwear — "shorts") are going to go in, stay just long enough to find the style we wear, select the size that used to fit us before we got some age on us and our head stuck in the feed-bag and get out as fast as we can.
Incidentally, Real Men recognize only three kinds of underwear: boxers, bikinis, and shorts. "Boxers" are worn as underwear by our fathers and as outerwear by skate-boarders. "Bikinis" are only worn by tennis bums, surfers and foreign men with accents that pronounce "Nice, France" as "Niece, France."
"Shorts" are those white Hanes-type underwear that have that Jim Palmer wears all over billboards. And "shorts" are worn by Real Men who, as everyone knows, drink Real Beer, not that sissy mineral water.
There's one more thing you should know about Real Men: they wear whatever kind of underwear their wives tell them to.
Cruise on over to the Lingerie Department, though, and the rules change. Over there it's a virtual playground of fancy-dancies just frilling around in front of everyone. I mean you can go to J.C. Pennys and see stuff laying around that would make Jimmy Bakker's mouth go dry.
They ought to go to a rack-rating system, sort of like the movies — you know G, PG, PG-13, R, and X. They already display that way: X and R at the outside of the department to suck you in, and then the G and PG that everybody buys after they figure out how they'll really look wearing that cute little number that only looks good on the [a] dummy.
There is already one hard-fast rule that is strictly observed in the women's underwear department: men are not allowed unless accompanied by a female.
Now I've never seen a sign that says that, but when was the last time you went there and lasted more than two minutes before a saleslady put the arm on you? If you decline their help twice and just wander around aimlessly, they call Security.
Doesn't matter that you're waiting for your wife and kid who are at a bra sale. Besides, nobody believes that in the lingerie department anyway.— they figure you're just there for some good old-fashioned recreational voyeurism.
So my wife says, "Stay right here, we'll be back in 15 minutes." With that she props me up onto one of the columns facing the cash register — and all the R rated stuff. My job has been reduced to the stay and pay plan.
Rule: if you're in a department store and your wife tells you to stay put, you stay put because if you leave or are out of her line of sight for a split second, that means you don't care how long she stays and have just signed off the rest of your day.
After 20 minutes I started to fidget. First with the change in my pocket and then shifting back and forth from foot to foot. That's probably when they started to notice me.
Then I started to wander around with that "Why am I here" look on my face that all husbands get when they're on time and their wife isn't.
Then I got bored and started browsing through the merchandise. First just a casual glance and then some serious lookie-touchie. And that's when the saleslady pounced.
"May I help you find something?" These are the most terrifying words a man can hear in the lingerie department.
Okay, to tell you the truth, she caught me off guard. I'd just discovered some gizmo called a "bustier" and was trying to figure out which end went up. So there I am looking at something I know I shouldn't be and a lady old enough to be my mom just caught me at it.
Well, as I tried to come up with something quick or clever, it suddenly occurred to me that I didn't want to admit I was the get-away driver for a bra sale — call me old-fashioned but I have a tough time talking to a woman about an article of clothing that only one of us is wearing.
So I said, "Uh, no, I'm just looking." Clever, eh?
"Well I can see that, young man, but perhaps I can show you something specific." Uh-oh, she's getting suspicious. Full court press coming on.
"Uh, no thanks. Really, I'm just looking. I'm actually waiting for someone." Why am I whispering all of a sudden?
"Oh, really. May I help them?" I'll bet she saw the little beads of sweat popping out on my forehead.
About that time I saw the two comedians in my life, my wife and daughter, were making their way over to me and were obviously enjoying my predicament because they were close enough to hear what was going on.
"Uh, no — actually they're done now. See? Here they come," I said as they walked right by me as if I didn't exist.
I reached out to grab my wife by the arm to help me out of this nightmare when she whirled and said loudly, "Don't touch me, you pervert!"
And then, just to cap off an otherwise perfect day of retail therapy, I could see the Security man break into a run when my daughter said to my wife — as they walked briskly away — "Mommy, who was that man?"
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days. And then you get caught in the women's underwear department. And then you discover that you have a family of comedians. And then it gets worse.
By Joe Acton
I don't think men should have to buy underwear. Wear it — yeah — we ought to wear it. But I don't think we should have to buy it. I don't exactly know who ought to buy it — but I do know it shouldn't be us.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not against underwear. Some of my best friends wear it all the time. And I try to set an example for my family by changing mine at least three times a week whether I need to or not.
But that's not the point. The point is that there's a social stigma to men buying underwear. Men just aren't supposed to be hanging around the underwear department. They are supposed to be hanging around sporting good stores and the showrooms of car dealerships. I know car dealerships have underwear departments because:
The salesman and I had just finished all the paperwork and the shiny new red Saab was just about mine. Sun roof, stereo — the whole works. I mean if you're looking at middle age and can't afford a divorce — get a new car. A red car. Redder the better. Or at least that's what the salesman told me and he ought to know, he'd been divorced twice and was working on his third.
So anyhow, I'd signed the deal and then he says, "Do you want a bra for her?"
I glanced around the showroom and said, "For who?"
"For the car! She'll look great in it." He looked at me like I had a rock for a brain.
Well, I'll admit, my Saab's got a nice set of headlights, but I didn't think it needed a bra. In fact, right up until that moment I didn't know the car wore underwear at all. Wasn't listed in the index of the owner's manual. I mean I knew I had to change the oil every 3,000 miles but nobody said anything about it wearing underwear.
"It's an option — it's a leather bra that fits over the front end and keeps the paint from getting dinged up — and it only costs $150," he explained.
Right. Well — cars aside — where I come from, a bra's not an option. It comes standard with the model. My mom said so: "Real men may not eat quiche, but nice girls do wear bras."
Always the bastion of progressive thought, my mom, but she had a point. I've seen a lot of invitations that say, "Black Tie Optional" but never one that said, "R.S.V.P., Bra Optional."
When it came to underwear, my mom knew her stuff. She sold it. Well, actually, in those days it was referred to as "Foundational Garments." Mom was a "personal representative" of Spencer Foundation Undergarments. It was like Tupperware (which she also sold) where you had parties and invited all of your friends over. Except in this case mom didn't pay me to go around and demonstrate how you burped the air out of the big bowls. I was the model.
You read right. Not a misprint. Every other Sunday during the summer of 1962, between 2 and 4 p.m. I was the neighborhood's model for the latest in long-line foundations for women.
Now don't get me wrong, the money was good. But after modeling a long-line bra or full-length girdle for your friend's mom you never really knew what the answer was going to be when you asked if their son could go camping with you. Fortunately, mom realized you could sell more Tupperware to the same women than you could girdles and I was back in the lid-burping business.
After that I avoided having anything to do with women's undergarments, except, of course, to periodically review the lingerie section of the Sears and Roebuck catalogue — purely professional interest, I assure you.
Anyhow, back to underwear shopping, your garden variety clothing store comes with two basic underwear departments: men's and women's. In the men's department all the underwear is hermetically sealed. The store knows that any of us Real Men who want to buy shorts (that's what Real Men call underwear — "shorts") are going to go in, stay just long enough to find the style we wear, select the size that used to fit us before we got some age on us and our head stuck in the feed-bag and get out as fast as we can.
Incidentally, Real Men recognize only three kinds of underwear: boxers, bikinis, and shorts. "Boxers" are worn as underwear by our fathers and as outerwear by skate-boarders. "Bikinis" are only worn by tennis bums, surfers and foreign men with accents that pronounce "Nice, France" as "Niece, France."
"Shorts" are those white Hanes-type underwear that have that Jim Palmer wears all over billboards. And "shorts" are worn by Real Men who, as everyone knows, drink Real Beer, not that sissy mineral water.
There's one more thing you should know about Real Men: they wear whatever kind of underwear their wives tell them to.
Cruise on over to the Lingerie Department, though, and the rules change. Over there it's a virtual playground of fancy-dancies just frilling around in front of everyone. I mean you can go to J.C. Pennys and see stuff laying around that would make Jimmy Bakker's mouth go dry.
They ought to go to a rack-rating system, sort of like the movies — you know G, PG, PG-13, R, and X. They already display that way: X and R at the outside of the department to suck you in, and then the G and PG that everybody buys after they figure out how they'll really look wearing that cute little number that only looks good on the [a] dummy.
There is already one hard-fast rule that is strictly observed in the women's underwear department: men are not allowed unless accompanied by a female.
Now I've never seen a sign that says that, but when was the last time you went there and lasted more than two minutes before a saleslady put the arm on you? If you decline their help twice and just wander around aimlessly, they call Security.
Doesn't matter that you're waiting for your wife and kid who are at a bra sale. Besides, nobody believes that in the lingerie department anyway.— they figure you're just there for some good old-fashioned recreational voyeurism.
So my wife says, "Stay right here, we'll be back in 15 minutes." With that she props me up onto one of the columns facing the cash register — and all the R rated stuff. My job has been reduced to the stay and pay plan.
Rule: if you're in a department store and your wife tells you to stay put, you stay put because if you leave or are out of her line of sight for a split second, that means you don't care how long she stays and have just signed off the rest of your day.
After 20 minutes I started to fidget. First with the change in my pocket and then shifting back and forth from foot to foot. That's probably when they started to notice me.
Then I started to wander around with that "Why am I here" look on my face that all husbands get when they're on time and their wife isn't.
Then I got bored and started browsing through the merchandise. First just a casual glance and then some serious lookie-touchie. And that's when the saleslady pounced.
"May I help you find something?" These are the most terrifying words a man can hear in the lingerie department.
Okay, to tell you the truth, she caught me off guard. I'd just discovered some gizmo called a "bustier" and was trying to figure out which end went up. So there I am looking at something I know I shouldn't be and a lady old enough to be my mom just caught me at it.
Well, as I tried to come up with something quick or clever, it suddenly occurred to me that I didn't want to admit I was the get-away driver for a bra sale — call me old-fashioned but I have a tough time talking to a woman about an article of clothing that only one of us is wearing.
So I said, "Uh, no, I'm just looking." Clever, eh?
"Well I can see that, young man, but perhaps I can show you something specific." Uh-oh, she's getting suspicious. Full court press coming on.
"Uh, no thanks. Really, I'm just looking. I'm actually waiting for someone." Why am I whispering all of a sudden?
"Oh, really. May I help them?" I'll bet she saw the little beads of sweat popping out on my forehead.
About that time I saw the two comedians in my life, my wife and daughter, were making their way over to me and were obviously enjoying my predicament because they were close enough to hear what was going on.
"Uh, no — actually they're done now. See? Here they come," I said as they walked right by me as if I didn't exist.
I reached out to grab my wife by the arm to help me out of this nightmare when she whirled and said loudly, "Don't touch me, you pervert!"
And then, just to cap off an otherwise perfect day of retail therapy, I could see the Security man break into a run when my daughter said to my wife — as they walked briskly away — "Mommy, who was that man?"
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days. And then you get caught in the women's underwear department. And then you discover that you have a family of comedians. And then it gets worse.