Fifty-one Year Old Woman vs the White Sweater Dress

****WARNING - this installment of CoastofIllinois contains references to female undergarments, and not in that sexy, Fredericks of Hollywood way but in more of a clinical, listen to your Mother way.*******

I bought a sweater dress. A white sweater dress. I am not sure why. I would like to think it was an act of optimism and not just a delusional disorder. I was probably high from that new dress smell and I had a handful of 'rewards' points and it was near the register...

Anyway...

I should probably give you a tiny bit of info. I am fifty one. I have a BMI somewhere between Salma Hayek and Melissa McCarthy. The dress is sweater knit and white. I spill things.

Last Saturday, I decided to wear the dress. Here is another little bit of info – anything you have on under a white sweater dress shows through the white sweater dress. Even when the dress is lined and you aren't wearing anything. (But this is not THAT sort of story.)

My plan was to wear the dress with black tights and boots and knowing how clingy sweater knit can be I opted for a staple in all over fifty underwear drawers: the Body Control Garment. This is the slip made of rubber band material and sent to all woman on return of their AARP membership. The dress hugged the slip which hugged me like a serial killer uncle at a family reunion. And the black tights gave the impression of my lower half being stuffed in a trash bag...sort of pre-murder.

Now here is an interesting fact about the Body Control Garment. It is quite serious about controlling the body. It reluctantly allows itself to be pulled up and over your head at which point the shelf bra grabs hold. I am quite sure that as the Lycra tried to suffocate me I heard the slip whisper, 'if I'm coming off, I'm taking these with me.' I halfheartedly called for my husband to come remove me but the thought of him seeing me tangled in a beige sausage casing and the resulting photos were much scarier than dying at the hands of an undergarment. I dug deep inside my self esteem and yanked.

The pop as the shelf bra cleared my boobs set off the car alarm.

With modern day undergarments clearly not working I tried the retro route – a vintage silk slip and thigh high nylons. (Don't even suggest a garter belt here. Again, this is not THAT sort of story and Hanes makes perfectly respectable thigh high stockings which are sold at Target. They are ten times more comfortable than panty hose. And the elastic bands leave an awesome imprint, perfect for startling unsuspecting medical personal who may be called upon to remove your Body Control Garment.) The stockings worked but even though I love my vintage slip, once under the clinging dress, the delicate silk embroidery became weird three dimensional flower tattoos on my chest.

In the end, because I was exhausted and my husband was now in the car checking the availability of his Alternates List (on which Salma Hayek is in the top five). I opted for the Girl Scout issue tan bra and gigantic underpants that stop just above the belly button. No slip. Black stockings.

Here is one more little bit of info: while the black stockings did not show through the dress lining nothing hides the two hand prints on my ass from the makeup still on my fingers when I readjusted the gigantic underpants.

Oh, and when you stand in the hallway trying to simultaneously brush the makeup off your ass and make sure your thigh bulges don't show above the elastic stockings, DO NOT assume the person you are asking, ''can you see ANYTHING through this stupid dress?" is your husband.

The shriek from our son set off the car alarm, again.

That's right, I own you Bea-atch!