Clothing Quandary

For the first time since I began blogging in August, I wracked my brain for a topic. After running through my schedule of events this week—I wrote a talk to give to medical students, organized the renovations of the hallways and lobby of my condo building, sweated through tabata training, drank coffee, reminisced about Vegas with the delightful G-Smash while eating Cajun chili, approved an MA thesis proposal, participated in a reproductive rights teleconference, bought 18 tins for gifting baked goods in December, and hired a diet coach—I decided that it was all too boring. Who, other than me, would give a rat’s ass? Well, maybe my artist friend who makes the asses of rats out of old fur coats. Even she would likely yawn. Then suddenly it came to me, in a surrealist dream that featured Marcel DuChamp dressed like Marcel Marceau: I would address my latest clothing quandary. Actually there is more than one.  

I got the idea while digging through my closet last night, hoping to find something suitable for my ever-expanding pregnant colleague. She was reluctant to spend money on items she might wear for only a few months. ‘Don’t worry,’ I assured her, ‘I have lots of fat pants you can have.’ After all, I used to be a size 14, though now I am a range of sizes, 4 in a dress, but about 8 in belted pants (ass wise) and a medium in tops given my recently broadened back, though they hang loose at the waist. My body now defies the size charts as it is not in keeping with the usual lady proportions. Note: I am not lamenting this fact; I am bragging about it.

There is nevertheless a downside, which is clearly evident in the empty hangers dangling before me. My unstable body, expanding like my colleague’s but in a significantly different way, has resulted in a minimal wardrobe. I almost cried when I was unable to zip up that red designer top made in a modern Asiatic style. In fact, I had to remove 15 blouses and shirts from my closet because they no longer fit. Quite a few of them were made by local designers, whom I try to support as much as possible. Let creativity reign! I don’t want to buy more, however, because I am only going to get bigger. Especially now that I have to weigh my chicken and buffalo on a precise digital scale. [Private message to my expectant colleague: After looking up pregnant in my thesaurus, I was tempted to nickname you HWC for ‘heavy with child’ but will refrain. In any case, yes you can have the Vera Wang that I purchased at Kohl’s in the States, but no you cannot have the Maggie Walt. In a state of irrational pique, I have decided to keep all of it even though it will never fit me again.] 

I cannot even use that tight red shirt as fetish wear. And boy do I need some of that. My lack of an expensive bustier, tiny leather shorts, steel-tipped bra, dog collar, wrist cuffs, female dance pants with built-in dildo (how convenient!), inflatable mask, pony hoof shaped gloves, and paddle is rendering me inadequate. I thought my partner had brought home a smooth wooden paddle when I found one on the kitchen counter this morning. I even started paddling him with it while he was brushing his teeth, but it turned out to be a small cutting board, sold to raise money for his boss’ daughter’s school. My generous partner kept shouting ‘Ow, stop that!’ but clearly that meant ‘keep going’ because the safe word was actually ‘MacIntosh toffee.’  

So I need leather and PVC gear for the fetish parties I will be attending while in London England, doing research but also visiting old friends. I have three male friends who live there now: one from highschool, one from grad school, and one from my first job as a university professor. My highschool friend–one of the sweetest men I have ever met—is now a successful musician who likes to dress as a captive wild boar or some such thing, dancing at the clubs with his stunning lady. And I am going with them, at least once. Oh yes I am. Dungeon anyone? I can decide later. More importantly: what to wear? The web site of the club clearly indicates that tacky crap won’t be tolerated. Only high quality inventive and appealing fetish wear is allowed. The site reassures thrifty potential patrons that spending a lot of cash is not necessary: simply look around the house and see what you can transform into a sexy and exotic costume. So I looked around, and I had a few ideas: shower curtain cock ring? Afghan blindfold? Guitar bustle? Light bulb mouth gag? And, of course, red gouda cheese wheel wax, divided in half, and worn as a labia cover. Labia, labia, labia! So that one is pretty obvious. Please send me any other helpful suggestions you might have. You can also send me your fat pants. But only if they are assless.

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About feministfiguregirl

I am a 49-year-old professor named Lianne McTavish who receives as much satisfaction from working out at the gym as from publishing my academic research. I decided to combine my two primary identities (scholar/gym rat) to create "Feminist Figure Girl," a fictional character who both analyzes and participates in bodybuilding. I competed in my first figure show in June of 2011, and then wrote a book inspired by the process, published by SUNY Press in February 2015. In this blog I will write about and consider my ongoing research on the body, while regularly making fun of myself. I recommend that you start reading my first post from August 2010 (available on the home page), instead of backwards from the most recent one, in order to get the full FFG effect.

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