I LOVE MY...Underwear Drawer

Posted by Shireen Sandoval  11/21/12, 5:11pm

My underwear drawer may seem like an odd thing to love, but one peek inside and you’ll see why.

It's a treasure chest filled with the finest of lace, in the loveliest of colors. I’ve arranged each bra and panty set to appear delicate and delicious; strong, yet seductive. It’s one of the proudest parts of my wardrobe. I adore Natori, splurge on La Perla, lavish myself with Victoria's Secret, and creatively mix & match Cosabella. Besides being beautiful and making my bare essentials look good, my undergarments have become my spiritual guru. 

My obsession with beautiful underpinnings began a few years ago when my marriage started unraveling. I didn’t get it at first, but now it’s so clear, it’s like a thong lodged up my derriere.

First it was: "I’ll buy these and he’ll love me." Then it was: "Aren’t these gorgeous? He won’t be able to resist." Needless to say, spending the money on therapy probably would have been more practical, but in a sense, it WAS therapy (and not just the retail kind.)

As the months passed and my marriage reached the depths of its despair, I started buying spectacular granny panties with matching bras . I felt homely and as sexy as say, androgynous Pat from an old episode of Saturday Night Live. I was mourning my marriage and the person I used to be and my underwear clearly gave me away. Thank god for clothes.

Slowly, as time gave way, I converted to pretty pinks & pale blues with modest cuts. I was becoming safe in my new environment, even though it’s not necessarily what I would have chosen for myself. Sometimes it’s not just about the fit, its about the risk.

I have to admit though, at times I’d go back to the drawer and slip on my grannies and cry at my reflection. They‘d become so stretched out and droopy, pathetic actually, but I just couldn’t let 'em go. I still loved them. Like a favorite pair of designer shoes that can’t be fixed because of wear and tear, or better yet, a favorite man that used to be the center of my universe but wasn’t anymore.

Then one day, like magic (actually it was thousands of dollars in therapy later,) as easy as I started buying granny panties, I let go of the sad little girl, the safe woman, in her safe underwear and started buying anew.

From over-the-shoulder boulder holders and thongs that could stop a train in its tracks, I couldn’t get enough sex appeal and yes, I was trying like hell to buy it. The more it pushed my boobs up and my butt cheeks apart, I bought it. My underwear helped "push and spread" me into places I didn’t want to go because I was scared, but eventually I did. My dad always says fear is a four-letter word that makes people stop living their lives. So, I’d charge it, then change it. Screw being scared (and I probably would have.)

As my self confidence started to return, I'd think: "Good god, where am I going to keep all of this underwear? Is there such a thing as underwear therapy? And should I start going to meetings STAT?" Eventually, guilt would lose out and stacking, folding and organizing would win. Amazingly, everything found its place, like little angels in underwear heaven, as if they were always meant to be together, adding texture, color, depth and meaning to my drawer and to my LIFE.

Now, my taste is more independent of my mood. I don’t choose from sadness, insecurity, overt sexuality or desperation. I choose what I like. I’ve always heard "moderation" is the key to life but honestly, how can one choose the right panty without trying on all of them? Every style, every color, every type. It makes perfect sense! At least until you meet a guy that says: "I don’t even like lingerie."

Luckily, I’ll try that on for size and my drawer will evolve yet again, just like my life ... with or without fancy underpants and that’s why I LOVE MY ...Underwear drawer. http://www.natori.com/

The Gallant Gladiator

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

The Gallant Gladiator a blog story...

I know it didn't happen in slow motion but it felt that way. My feet danced around me; forward and backward, up and down, side to side. My body lunged in different directions, twisting and turning, in what I thought was a dazzling display of agility. So, imagine my surprise when my enemy sunk her dagger straight into my heart. I gasped in pain and my body grew limp. After she stabbed me, she pulled me close and whispered: "Rest in peace Gallant Gladiator."

Rosebuds, Mr. Herrick, Clover Canyon & Floggs

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

When Springtime approaches, the poem "Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May" incessantly runs through my head. It affects me in two ways. At first, I feel a renewal of sorts. Spring brings such possibilities. Then I feel an overwhelming need to inflict pain on Robert Herrick. He's the 17th-century English writer that penned the poem. It's basically a warning to young people to heed love ASAP. He states: "That age is best which is the first." My translation - love is better when you're young (virgin-like) so get it while the gettin's good.

Paula, Kookie & Molly my hair chronicle ...

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I didn't lose my hair all at once. It came out little by little, here and there. It trailed behind me like a brillant mystery novel, leaving little clues to my whereabouts. First, I noticed it on my pillow. Then my shower drain. I'd find strands on my shoulders and frantically pick them off. Eventually a clump would follow. Each piece was like a string of rope coming untethered. The once strong, tightly bound fibers unraveled around me. Over time, my magnificent mane became minuscule. The bottom shed so much it turned see-through. The top, typically full, thinned-out into a lackluster, lifeless thing that just laid there. It was a case of "hair today, gone tomorrow" literally.

A Fashion Felony

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I was in a deep sleep when the raid happened. It was the middle of the night. The sound of the front door getting kicked in jolted me from my slumber. My heart raced. I knew it was over. I had the premonition a few days prior. I just didn't think it'd be so soon. I'd prepared myself - going over and over it - hundreds of times in my head. But now that it was actually happening, I wasn't ready. I looked through the darkness, toward the door of my bedroom and saw flashlights flooding my apartment. A cop yelled my name, demanding my surrender. I couldn't let them take me. Not now. Not like this. I was vunerable, disheveled and undressed.