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It's about panties!
4/24/23 edited to add: I had trouble editing this after publishing. I apologize for the typos/grammatical errors. Hopefully most of them are fixed now.
Hi friends,
This week I am writing about my ongoing love/hate relationship with my body.
I absolutely should have added a trigger warning to the free newsletter but forgot because I get awfully caught up in cutting out tens of thousands of extraneous and unimportant backstory.
I have added said trigger warnings to the archived version, but I apologize most sincerely for the un-warning-ed version that ended up in your inboxes. Hopefully the title and subtitle alone will be enough to warn you. Body hatred is the worst and I absolutely do not want to be causing a flare if you are a fellow sufferer of this most dumb and most exhausting affliction.
You, as a beloved premium subscriber, can insert these bonus (how boujie!) paragraphs right after the line about the coffee enema.
Enjoy! Or be appalled! Whichever!
This whole process was made a thousand times worse because of my Mormon garments. I hesitate to even type this out because it's such a complicated issue and I have a lot of family and friends who still wear them and feel strongly about their importance. Mormon 'magic panties' are something often mocked and a quick google search will show you what they look like. For twenty years of my life, they were something I felt duty bound to protect and respect; I wore them faithfully, as instructed---day and night.
And unlike many of my peers, I didn't automatically hate them. We get them when we go through the temple for the first time, and yes, my first sets were ill-fitting, made managing periods difficult, were not designed for women's changing bodies, highlighted my small breasts with loose-fitting 'cups' I had to tuck into my bra, caused yeast infections, and made finding clothing that would cover them very difficult.
Despite the inconveniences, I still valued them deeply. They meant I had finally achieved true belonging. I was married, sealed in the temple... I was, at long last, a valid human being. My visible garment lines proved it.
(The design did get a little better over the years. The styles were changed a few times and eventually they fit better, though they remained hot and uncomfortable, were difficult to hide, did not work well with menstrual pads, and made my hives so much worse.)
My biggest issue with them was how they either created or exacerbated (chicken or egg situation here) this growing disconnect between me and my body. As my body changed through pregnancy and later through aging, it was easy to ignore what was happening. I'd shower and immediately put on underwear that covered me from shoulder to knee, effectively blocking me from facing or making peace with any discomfort about my changing body. They even went back on after sex (as instructed by the church), robbing both Eric and I of what I imagine could have been additional intimacy and closeness without the barrier of religiously mandated underwear.
They separated me from one of the most comforting things I had in my arsenal: Eric's love and acceptance and even adoration of me regardless of size or skin tightness.
I started transitioning away from garments in 2019. It was emotionally difficult. I did not find it initially freeing, nor did it instantly solve all of my other body-image problems. I would read happy, celebratory posts from other baby ex-Mormons about how excited they were to wear tank tops and short shorts, how thrilling they found it to dress appropriately for the weather and not sweat under additional layers. They'd post pictures of their new tattoos, standing on top of a mountain somewhere, bared arms raised to the sky.
I could not relate. What was this foreign skin suit under all these layers? Where had all this cellulite come from? My bottom looked like it had been hit repeatedly with a bag of rocks, a fist-sized dent in one side making it look funny in leggings or swim suits. After breaking my knee and suffering muscle atrophy on bed rest, my right leg sagged in weird places, making my skin look lumpy and malformed from hip to shin. I had missed that youthful window where my arms might have looked good in a tank top; I didn't know what to do with these white, fleshy things that swung loosely from my shoulders.
Wearing a bra right next to my skin after two whole decades of wearing it on top of my garments itched like crazy. I wanted to scratch off my nipples and mail them to church headquarters. Finding regular underpants might have been fun if my body looked like it had before I covered everything up, but instead it was an expensive disaster. Well, for me. Eric enjoyed the constant parading of various panty styles---and despite continuing to appreciate and wear his own garments, he thoroughly enjoyed seeing more of me, dimples and itchy nipples and all.
But I was devastated. I didn't recognize myself. I didn't know how to make peace with this.
If you are reading this in order, you may now return to the free post starting with the line, "If you followed my Instagram account in 2019..."
Now, here is some extra extra bonus Mormon garment content that didn't fit anywhere:
I remember going to Beehive Clothing with my mother when I was small. It must have been somewhere in Salt Lake City, before you could show your recommend at Deseret Book and buy garments there. I remember being shorter than the tall, wooden counters, and watching the women who worked behind them. There were rows of product behind the counters, also faced in dark wood. It always seemed to take a long time, and I'd sit on the little upholstered benches while my mother waited for her number to be called.
Once garments are worn out or no longer fit, Mormons are not allowed to donate them. They can't be thrown out unless we first cut the sacred symbols from each breast, belly button, and knee. I remember sitting at my mother's kitchen table after I had Jake helping her cut up a bunch of old garments. I was shocked at how much they had changed; she had the garments she wore when I was a baby... one piece with a bulky zipper down the front so she could unzip and nurse me.
Lots of people have Mormon folklore stories about people who were protected from fires or accidents while wearing them. My father has kind of a different one that goes like this:
Dad's Uncle Lyn was working in his garage and had cleaning rags cut from old garments. You could use them as cleaning rags as long as the symbols were first removed. One piece of cloth on the floor of the garage burst into spontaneous flame. I believe Uncle Lyn was working with cars, so some kind of fuel or chemical fire wasn't completely unheard of. He stomped it out and continued working only to find the fabric burning once more. I cannot remember how many times he stomped out the fire only to have it return, but eventually picked up the rag to inspect it. He discovered one of the sacred symbols had been overlooked and needed to be removed. He cut it out and disposed of it, and the remaining piece of fabric stopped bursting into flame.
This was told as a faith promoting story. The symbols sewn into the garments were really important and so special that god would not allow them to be misused or mocked, and would instead, cause the offending cloth to burn. The message was clear: we must be very careful in how we wear and treat them.
Part of what 'broke my shelf' and caused my faith crisis was learning about how American Mormon garments were. Missionaries who served in poor countries that were also very hot and humid watched their garments get stretched out and discolored as they were washed by hand in buckets. Converted members in those poor countries couldn't afford to buy garments from America so would ask Mormon missionaries who were going home if they could have their old, sweat-stained, stretched out underwear(!!) The heat and humidity in these climates + garment layers would cause more than just yeast infections; people would suffer from heat stroke, boils, and other skin issues.
I remember just breaking down crying, realizing that no loving god would force the members of his church to wear underwear that was absolutely not practical and not sustainable in other parts of the world. They were already annoying for us! Finding clothes that would cover them was an exercise in futility! They were supposed to be secret, sacred reminders of the covenants and promises we made in the temple, but they were obvious --- members can tell if other members are wearing them properly from a mile away. And yet, we struggle constantly to keep them covered and usually fail spectacularly.
Me, at BlogHer in 2005, wearing four layers: garment, bra, undershirt, and shirt... and you can still see my garments inside my sleeve (we're not allowed to roll, fold, or stuff them in order to shorten them).
Even though garments were a pain and even though they were (unknowingly at the time) creating disconnect between me and my body, they again represented such a powerful sense of belonging. They meant community, they meant acceptance, they meant approval. It was incredibly painful to admit they were mere constructs of a super flawed human being and likely weren't necessary for my eternal salvation. It hurt so much to admit I'd wasted time, money, and energy on wearing them properly. I felt so foolish; it was all stupid, it was all for nothing. But it was still heartbreaking. Especially knowing I would make my mother cry by taking them off.
But I eventually did. And five years later (!) I still REALLY struggle wearing something sleeveless or shorts that don't go to my knee. It has more to do with body shame at this point, but there is also the cultural shock I cause if I run to the store in a tank top. Not wearing garment-appropriate clothing is a very clear signal that I'm an apostate. Sometimes that's difficult to carry around in my small town, though I'm caring less and less.
I don't know that I'll get around to wearing actual shorts this summer, but I do plan on trying to free the shoulders more often.
Wish me luck. xo