The simple assortment of white silk and lace sat as a reminder in my drawer. This pair was his favorite, he loved these leggings – most were bought why? Because he loved a woman in white.
As a young teenager white bras and underwear were unappealing. They cried out I obviously don’t have sex, a phrase which could translate to, I’m ugly, shy, and dull. For no man would like a girl who wears simple undergarments, right? Men like red and black, for those colors are bold, fierce, uninhibited, sexy, everything a young teenager dreams of being – even the church girls.
As I got older I started to care about what was under my clothes. I realized that if I thought I looked good practically naked, even if no one saw me, then I was more confident. Shortly after that revelation I became obsessed with buying lingerie. It started off slow, a pair of panties here, bra there, cute socks anytime. Then I started dating my first big love. And within months my delicates drawer was a shrine to Victoria’s Secret.
I fell in love with the soft silk, the lace, the satisfaction of a matching top and bottom. I fell in love with the sexiness, the feeling of being wanted, the passion. I fell in love with a man and the more he loved me back, the more beauty I saw in myself.
He fell too far – he fell out of love. In truth I saw the end but I couldn’t make myself let go. He did it for me. It hurt, I felt like my heart was torn out and splattered against the wall. I didn’t feel alive. In the shower my tears fused with the water – I let the water run cold. I ate just enough to remain hungry. I lost 7 pounds in a week. Friends told me to never see him again, that if I did I would never move on. I knew that we still had a future, but not as lovers. On the night it ended we agreed that our lives weren’t ready to part completely. After that night we chatted occasionally, our continued friendship evident to both of us. However, it was and is too soon. My emotions aren’t ready to spend extended periods of time in his presence. My heart’s too bruised. Eventually the wound will heal – but not quite yet.
And now the white lingerie reflects the memories of the love crushed beneath my feet. Laughter, tears, bitterness, and joy all sewn into the hem. It was beautiful, but now it’s over and I’m left wondering why I did the things I did, said the things I said, and bought the things I bought. How much was for him? How much was for me?
How would things be different if I’d never seen him? If I’d never decorated myself with white lingerie?