Language called lingerie

Is it true that a woman channels her inner-female through the way she dresses? Or inner-anything for that matter? Take, for example, lingerie. From the no-nonsense, thick-strapped cotton stuff, to the sheer, lacy contraptions that Triumph manufactures, she takes her pick to complement an important occasion, a fiery thought, a fleeting mood, a wispy promise. A fancy dinner would call for the expensive Victoria’s Secret, and while donning a saree, she would appreciate the silhouette that the Pierre Cardin underwire can bring about.

But what is the need for a woman to pay such close attention to something that does not make a bold appearance, even if it makes a bold statement? And to spend so much on something that is fit for only being hidden beneath layers, or to be hastily peeled off in foggy passion? I see women standing by the lingerie counter in all the clothes stores, mulling over the various sultry silks which promise to open secret windows to fantasies. Fat and slim, short and tall, thin and curvy, plump and pregnant: women make a beeline for expensive lingerie even when their husbands mumble about the frivolousness of it all.

The husband, the direct beneficiary and intended target of such bold expressions, often dismisses lingerie as an impediment, and relegates it to a cobwebbed corner of the bedroom. Then why does a woman invest time and money in such purchases?

A woman has many things to consider. She has the frenemy in the office to outdo; the one whom she has to have an edge over by somehow sparkling under the harsh lights. She has the husband to turn on, keep interested and have coming back for more. Then there is the eternal struggle in striking balance between Fashion and Comfort, as tipping more towards one would make the other jealous and vengeful.

You may feel she is looking slightly out-of-breath in that push-up bra, with a partner who hardly notices any difference the cloth is causing to her appearance, while the frenemy struts about looking as voluptuous as always. And you may wonder why, despite all this, she keeps going back for seconds and thirds to the lingerie store. You may call her desperate; you may ask her to not be so vain; you may plead with her to give up this seemingly hedonistic pursuit to hell and beyond. What you may not realise is that she does this not for you, or for her husband, or for her competition. She does this for herself.

She slips on the fuschia T-shirt bra as sunlight streams through her window, because little birds are chirping in her nested head. She decides on a polka-dotted pair because a picture of her mother in bellbottoms in the 70s made her wish she belonged to another era. She wears the deep red lacy set, not because her mind is in the gutter, but because she feels extra feminine tonight.

A woman need not paint her lips scarlet, flick her hair suggestively, or sway her hips while walking, to get a point across. Lingerie, like a lingering desire, may be buried deep within, dressed in shadows, and may never see the light of day.

A woman may have a point to make, often to no one but herself. And lingerie, hidden yet revealing, helps her in doing just that.