- Joined
- Feb 24, 2019
February 2016
"Then Friday, during a business meeting, genius struck. So Imagine this, I am on a phone call- actively participating mind you- while at the same time slathering my body in temporary tattoos and painting my face dramatically with watercolor face sticks. Thank god, no cameras or screen sharing was involved, or I would have had a lot to explain. Or not so much. My work gets me."
March 2016
"My work life is pretty intense sometimes. So it wasn’t a total surprise when my boss was like “ you need to stay two more days in NYC.” But at the same time, I was totally unprepared. I had nothing to wear, literally. I had packed dresses in lieu of pants, so I had no easy way to rework an outfit from the last few days. Plus, I needed to be dressed to take a client out on the town Thursday night. So it’s not like I could just buy a few crappy t-shirts and make it work. I had to get crafty."
May 2016
August 2016
"Look, I am not one for conferences. I’m the sort that would rather be goofing off in the" sun or exploring, than sitting in a room talking about stuff. So I was super surprised how much I enjoyed The Curvy Fashionista Expo. First off, I got to meet two women I truly have loved from a far for awhile- Jess Baker and Alysse from Ready to Stare. Second, the jams were on point. I found myself dancing around pretty much all day, as might feet reminded me with a heavy sigh when the day was through.
The event went above and beyond to get a healthy mix of well known plus brands and lesser know indie designers. For some, it was there first show. Opportunities like this are important if we want to continue to increase the options available for curvy ladies. Opportunities however have a negative affect on my wallet- but I suppose that was the point of the day!
My only complaint on the whole day is that there were these half naked men (yessssss), carrying cupcake trays (double yasss) but then tried to charge me $4 for said cupcake. I’m sorry, boo, you ain’t that cute. If I am going to pay $4 for a stale cupcake it better be hand delivered by drake, shirtless, bare back on a horse singing over over and over ” I like my girls bbw…”"
To say was a late bloomer romantically, would be an understatement. I never was the type to think about men. While other girls were planning weddings and babies and houses, I was planning how I would manage to revive the renaissance era by becoming a “lawyer/doctor/artist/ boss ass bitch.” Ok maybe the terminology on my aspirations is a bit… modern. That said, I had every intention of taking on the universe, and men? Well, they just got in the way. Or least that’s how I felt until I moved to Brazil.
When people ask me about my time in the country of carnival nights and samba dreams, I often tell them that Brazil made me beautiful. I don’t quite understand it and it sounds 100% ludicrous to say it out loud, but I believe it. Maybe I just happen to hit puberty there or maybe the heat flipped a switch in my brain, but the country changed me. I learned how to do make up. I started wearing heels. I embraced my body. I learned how to dance. I found the power that exists in being a woman. Not that tarting yourself up is a sign of femininity, rather owning who you are and letting it shine is a VERY powerful thing. I was a woman, and the world was going here me roar. Now, that’s what I consider being beautiful.
I was in country full of exotic new things with fresh surge of estrogen feel good vibes pumping through my veins, naturally I started to feel things. Like, I noticed that that boy who sat three rows in front of me on the far left, who I was pretty sure had stolen my diskman, was suddenly very mysterious and intriguing. I got a weird sensation when the attractive man at the upscale mall store touched the small of my back after I bought a dozen t-shirts I didn’t need but for some reason felt oddly compelled to buy. When someone asked me to dance, I suddenly cared how I moved. I found myself in a strange new place with all these weird desires, while feeling inwardly like a warrior goddess, and yet confused about who I was. Let’s just say that in a much simple way. I was 16 and I was horny. Basically, I was a walking disaster.
I tried to discuss this with my Brazilian gal pals. I should note that my Portuguese was at this point minimal. I sat thumbing through my well worn dictionary and attempting to piece together sentences. I am pretty sure my coming of age realization was first explained to them as something along the lines of ” happy goat times with warm fuzzy socks are pleasing to my madame kittens” but we got there eventually. This only let me to an even more uncomfortable conversation. What I had “done” with a boy so far. The answer was simple. Nothing.
“Never kissed anyone? Never?!?!” They flocked around me fascinated that a girl my age had never planted a smooch. I was a spectacle. I was an oddity. I was the day’s gossip. Soon the entire school knew I was virgin lipped. Then the neighboring school new. Then the private school down the street. And so on. It was like some had paid a sky writer to paint the blue horizon with words proclaiming my lack of lip locking experience. As the word spread, so did the lady backed power mission to break my chopper covers from their chastity belt of loneliness.
“You know Bruno, that you met at the party, Saturday? His brother’s friend’s cousin thinks you’re cute and wants to meet you at the shopping mall on Saturday.” I knew this was a Brazilian colloquialism for, “We found a guy who wants to say he made out with a curvy blonde girl from America, so if you want to kiss someone just take a shower and show up at the mall.” I am pretty sure the last 24 hours had been spent with girls floating Polaroids of my face around family get together and parties, explaining my assets, and marketing my innocent lips up to the male masses. I like to think 24 hours indicates I was easy to match, but really I think it’s just a reflection of how fast news about a eccentric foreigner can travel in a small Brazilian town.
On Saturday I was a wreck. What does one wear to one’s first kiss? You must admit, this is not the typical scenario, knowing explicitly when someone is going to kiss you for the first time and where. It was like an arranged marriage, except it was kisses rather than wedding vows we would be exchanging. I did my best to put on my big girl pants and face the music, which in this case was a pop version of Little Mermaid’s “Kiss the girl.”
As arrived at the mall, there was a herd of excited teenage girls eagerly waiting to greet me. The first 4 or 5 I recognized from school, but the other 25 chattering girls eagerly following them I had never seen in my life. They flocked towards me, adjusted my hair, tugged at my clothes, and prepped me for the meeting of love. It was like a terribly coordinated episode of ambush make over, led by a team of highly unqualified experts. I remember leaving the throng wearing heavy black liner around my lips, with my eyes resembling very bizarre variation of panda chic. Regardless, I felt beautiful. Its hard not to with gaggle of women repeatedly telling you how fierce you look.
Once my face had been properly doctored and my clothes tucked and sorted, I felt the herd push me forward and across the mall. There is nothing more overwhelming then have 25 women yelling at you in a foreign language while simultaneously pushing you toward a crowd of men of the approximate same size for the ceremonial removal of your mouth chastity.
I found myself shoved forward from the crowd almost ritualistically. I was a sacrifice….of amore. I look up and see an equally as startled male ripped from the comforts of his man crew and thrust to the center. The crowd reformed in a circle around us. As I gazed up to see Bruno’s cousin’s friend’s brother( thank god he was taller than me), the love caucus fell eerily silent. They were frozen in anticipation. They were waiting for contact. They were ready for sparks. All you could hear was the steady pinging of cash registers as unaware shoppers finished their purchasing. I wanted to throw up.
I find when life gives me a crowd, I have no choice but to perform. Somehow I took that nauseousness and turned it into fearlessness. It’s like I reached down deep inside, channeled my inner Britney Spears, and mentally committed. It was on. I leaned forward puckered my lips and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. I felt the crowd leaning inward, holding their breath, afraid to move, waiting for his lips to touch mine. I felt sweat drip down my back and suddenly my bold move felt less brave and more like a poor choice in a choose your own adventure book. Instead of getting murdered in a cave, I would be slaughtered by peer judgement.
And just as I began to lose hope I felt his chapped lips touch mine. Contact! He had kissed me. Finally. And before I knew what was happening he had pushed his tongue deep into my mouth. It wasn’t sexy. It was awkward. Like eating a live octopus, a very very active octopus. I am not sure what was going on but it felt like he was doing the Macarena in my mouth with his tongue. Sloshing back and forth, his tongue would not stop. He has grabbed my head and proceed to forcefully jack hammer away. Intent on getting my tongue, like a woodpecker starving for a fresh worm.
As Bruno’s cousin’s best friends brother went to town on my mouth I was silently contemplating why anyone would ever want to do this. Was this like wine- something I would appreciate with time? Was I just a bad kisser? Maybe I was supposed to be counter blocking with my own fleshy mouth warrior. Maybe lip locking is why love is so often compared to war; its a battlefield where no one wins. It. Was. Terrible.
Just as I was constructing a brilliant plan to punch him the gold nuggets so we could stop this stupid un-fun highly over hyped activity, I finally felt his grip release. I remember that moment as one of the happiest of my life. And as he stepped back obviously proud of himself, I felt the pain. Maybe all my inner thinking had separated me from the moment, but as I snapped back to reality my jaw was throbbing and I suddenly felt dizzy.
“SHE’S BLEEDING!!!” I heard a few of the girls scream, and suddenly I was reminded I was surrounded by pretty much my entire school, the neighboring school, and the private school down the street. As I touched the corner of my mouth I tasted the salty flavor of blood for the first time. I felt dizzy and confused and completely overwhelmed. Just then a caramel haired girl in a blue tube top thrust a compact mirror in my face. “Look,” she said.
Opening the compact, I saw the blood dripping down my chin. I saw my bangs matted and sweaty against my forehead. I saw the remnants of way too much make up distorted on my skin like a Picasso painting brought to life. I was a mess. I opened my mouth desperately seeking the source of the blood. Lifting my tongue I felt a sharp pain and a fresh gush of blood ooze over my lips and onto my chin. My tongue had been ripped from the bottom of my mouth.
Before my first kiss I had ankyloglossia (a birth defect that prevent tongue mobility), after…. well not so much. I was a changed woman and change is bloody hard indeed.
When people ask me about my time in the country of carnival nights and samba dreams, I often tell them that Brazil made me beautiful. I don’t quite understand it and it sounds 100% ludicrous to say it out loud, but I believe it. Maybe I just happen to hit puberty there or maybe the heat flipped a switch in my brain, but the country changed me. I learned how to do make up. I started wearing heels. I embraced my body. I learned how to dance. I found the power that exists in being a woman. Not that tarting yourself up is a sign of femininity, rather owning who you are and letting it shine is a VERY powerful thing. I was a woman, and the world was going here me roar. Now, that’s what I consider being beautiful.
I was in country full of exotic new things with fresh surge of estrogen feel good vibes pumping through my veins, naturally I started to feel things. Like, I noticed that that boy who sat three rows in front of me on the far left, who I was pretty sure had stolen my diskman, was suddenly very mysterious and intriguing. I got a weird sensation when the attractive man at the upscale mall store touched the small of my back after I bought a dozen t-shirts I didn’t need but for some reason felt oddly compelled to buy. When someone asked me to dance, I suddenly cared how I moved. I found myself in a strange new place with all these weird desires, while feeling inwardly like a warrior goddess, and yet confused about who I was. Let’s just say that in a much simple way. I was 16 and I was horny. Basically, I was a walking disaster.
I tried to discuss this with my Brazilian gal pals. I should note that my Portuguese was at this point minimal. I sat thumbing through my well worn dictionary and attempting to piece together sentences. I am pretty sure my coming of age realization was first explained to them as something along the lines of ” happy goat times with warm fuzzy socks are pleasing to my madame kittens” but we got there eventually. This only let me to an even more uncomfortable conversation. What I had “done” with a boy so far. The answer was simple. Nothing.
“Never kissed anyone? Never?!?!” They flocked around me fascinated that a girl my age had never planted a smooch. I was a spectacle. I was an oddity. I was the day’s gossip. Soon the entire school knew I was virgin lipped. Then the neighboring school new. Then the private school down the street. And so on. It was like some had paid a sky writer to paint the blue horizon with words proclaiming my lack of lip locking experience. As the word spread, so did the lady backed power mission to break my chopper covers from their chastity belt of loneliness.
“You know Bruno, that you met at the party, Saturday? His brother’s friend’s cousin thinks you’re cute and wants to meet you at the shopping mall on Saturday.” I knew this was a Brazilian colloquialism for, “We found a guy who wants to say he made out with a curvy blonde girl from America, so if you want to kiss someone just take a shower and show up at the mall.” I am pretty sure the last 24 hours had been spent with girls floating Polaroids of my face around family get together and parties, explaining my assets, and marketing my innocent lips up to the male masses. I like to think 24 hours indicates I was easy to match, but really I think it’s just a reflection of how fast news about a eccentric foreigner can travel in a small Brazilian town.
On Saturday I was a wreck. What does one wear to one’s first kiss? You must admit, this is not the typical scenario, knowing explicitly when someone is going to kiss you for the first time and where. It was like an arranged marriage, except it was kisses rather than wedding vows we would be exchanging. I did my best to put on my big girl pants and face the music, which in this case was a pop version of Little Mermaid’s “Kiss the girl.”
As arrived at the mall, there was a herd of excited teenage girls eagerly waiting to greet me. The first 4 or 5 I recognized from school, but the other 25 chattering girls eagerly following them I had never seen in my life. They flocked towards me, adjusted my hair, tugged at my clothes, and prepped me for the meeting of love. It was like a terribly coordinated episode of ambush make over, led by a team of highly unqualified experts. I remember leaving the throng wearing heavy black liner around my lips, with my eyes resembling very bizarre variation of panda chic. Regardless, I felt beautiful. Its hard not to with gaggle of women repeatedly telling you how fierce you look.
Once my face had been properly doctored and my clothes tucked and sorted, I felt the herd push me forward and across the mall. There is nothing more overwhelming then have 25 women yelling at you in a foreign language while simultaneously pushing you toward a crowd of men of the approximate same size for the ceremonial removal of your mouth chastity.
I found myself shoved forward from the crowd almost ritualistically. I was a sacrifice….of amore. I look up and see an equally as startled male ripped from the comforts of his man crew and thrust to the center. The crowd reformed in a circle around us. As I gazed up to see Bruno’s cousin’s friend’s brother( thank god he was taller than me), the love caucus fell eerily silent. They were frozen in anticipation. They were waiting for contact. They were ready for sparks. All you could hear was the steady pinging of cash registers as unaware shoppers finished their purchasing. I wanted to throw up.
I find when life gives me a crowd, I have no choice but to perform. Somehow I took that nauseousness and turned it into fearlessness. It’s like I reached down deep inside, channeled my inner Britney Spears, and mentally committed. It was on. I leaned forward puckered my lips and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. I felt the crowd leaning inward, holding their breath, afraid to move, waiting for his lips to touch mine. I felt sweat drip down my back and suddenly my bold move felt less brave and more like a poor choice in a choose your own adventure book. Instead of getting murdered in a cave, I would be slaughtered by peer judgement.
And just as I began to lose hope I felt his chapped lips touch mine. Contact! He had kissed me. Finally. And before I knew what was happening he had pushed his tongue deep into my mouth. It wasn’t sexy. It was awkward. Like eating a live octopus, a very very active octopus. I am not sure what was going on but it felt like he was doing the Macarena in my mouth with his tongue. Sloshing back and forth, his tongue would not stop. He has grabbed my head and proceed to forcefully jack hammer away. Intent on getting my tongue, like a woodpecker starving for a fresh worm.
As Bruno’s cousin’s best friends brother went to town on my mouth I was silently contemplating why anyone would ever want to do this. Was this like wine- something I would appreciate with time? Was I just a bad kisser? Maybe I was supposed to be counter blocking with my own fleshy mouth warrior. Maybe lip locking is why love is so often compared to war; its a battlefield where no one wins. It. Was. Terrible.
Just as I was constructing a brilliant plan to punch him the gold nuggets so we could stop this stupid un-fun highly over hyped activity, I finally felt his grip release. I remember that moment as one of the happiest of my life. And as he stepped back obviously proud of himself, I felt the pain. Maybe all my inner thinking had separated me from the moment, but as I snapped back to reality my jaw was throbbing and I suddenly felt dizzy.
“SHE’S BLEEDING!!!” I heard a few of the girls scream, and suddenly I was reminded I was surrounded by pretty much my entire school, the neighboring school, and the private school down the street. As I touched the corner of my mouth I tasted the salty flavor of blood for the first time. I felt dizzy and confused and completely overwhelmed. Just then a caramel haired girl in a blue tube top thrust a compact mirror in my face. “Look,” she said.
Opening the compact, I saw the blood dripping down my chin. I saw my bangs matted and sweaty against my forehead. I saw the remnants of way too much make up distorted on my skin like a Picasso painting brought to life. I was a mess. I opened my mouth desperately seeking the source of the blood. Lifting my tongue I felt a sharp pain and a fresh gush of blood ooze over my lips and onto my chin. My tongue had been ripped from the bottom of my mouth.
Before my first kiss I had ankyloglossia (a birth defect that prevent tongue mobility), after…. well not so much. I was a changed woman and change is bloody hard indeed.
To the world, I was a femme fatale. I treated the city streets like my own personal catwalk. Each pace dripping wet with sultry confidence that had always naturally flowed through my finger tips and hung on heavy on my words. They called me electric, the type of girl who jolts you awake as she passes. I wasn’t a waif picturesque beauty that the world found itself surrounded by. I was an assertive curvy goddess. I owned my body and never was ashamed of it. It made people uncomfortable. I was taboo and I made men want to break the rules. I was a tiger, a ravenous exotic beast on the prowl. However, little did they know that under my cloak of pheromones and red lipstick, hid a girl who was completely and utterly terrified of physical intimacy Innocent, I lived with sex free sheets.
He approached my on the dirty side walk outside of the annual car show, well his crew approached me is a more honest description of the situation. A tall meaty man thrust himself in front of me and demanded my attention. I nervously tugged on my earring, while trying to look away. I had been in New York long enough to know anyone demanding attention was probably the sort that didn’t deserve it. I learned this lesson the hard way after having a garbage can thrown at me by a strung out junkie outside my office. Still, even now it was stil hard to resist the urge to be nice. I blame years of growing up in the religious mid-west, where everyone was sweet as peaches to your face and equally as sour behind your back. I walked forward staring attentively at the ground, as if the crusty urine stained sidewalk was a work of modern art that masterfully grabbed my attention.
“He wants to talk to you.” The fleshy man said, inserting himself in my path. Man, he was relentless.
“If he wants to talk to me, he can be a man and talk to me. I’m an adult, I don’t play telephone.” I kept walking, now with my head held high. I was too old for this. Catcalls were for chumps.
“Look I’d like to take you on a date.” I looked up to see a sultry sex god, smiling back at me, holding out his phone.” Can I get you’re number? I’ll call you.”
“I’d like that.” I felt my lips part and my face melt into a cheesy grin. Before I knew what was happening I was twirling my hair and giggling. Of course chocolate man candy, could have my number. He could have all my numbers. My date of birth. My age. My high school locker code. My diary password. Take them. Take all the numbers. He could play sesame street, he’d be the Count as long as I could be his tickle me Elmo. For a sexless wonder woman, I sure knew how to flirt. I was born the perfect genetic make up of a tease.
We chatted for a bit. Non of the words were memorable, but the way he looked at me I would never forget. He liked that I was funny. I liked that he was aloof. Let’s be honest, I liked that he treated me as if I was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. A few minutes turned in an hour and soon the neighborhood became dark around us.
” I don’t want to go home.” He said, placing his hand in his jean jacket and shrugging. ” Take a walk with me around the park?” He gestured to a park, just a few blocks up.
It felt like my New York romantic-comedy movie moment; how could I resist? Something magical was bound to happen. Maybe it would rain or fresh powdery flakes of snow would fall. Perhaps we’d meet an eccentric homeless person who would bless us with a gift of a rose and the ultimate romantic beginning to our love story. Whatever was just beyond those garden gates, I was certain would change my life forever.
Nervously, I obliged as he took my hand and led me into the park. The night has come fast. It was so dark I could barely make out anything other than the two rats fighting valiantly over a few cheetos carelessly spilled by a child earlier that day. I noticed that at night the park became a different place than in the daylight. Friendly trees providing gentle shade to a hot summers day, became thorny beasts creaking in the wind. The delightful smell of fresh grass, was lost with out the sun to warm it’s fragrance into the air. Instead the garden smelled of the stale air at a concert port-a-potty.
He sat on a worn wooden bench and gestured me to join him. Eager to replace my sad reflections on the park at night, with a charming moment from a budding romance, I nestled in next to him. I pressed against his body adsorbing his warmth. He tenderly took my face in my hands, I felt my temperature rise and my palms sweat. He was going to kiss me. I could feel it. This was our beginning. I batted my lashes staring straight into his big eyes and waited. He paused and after what seemed like forever he finally spoke.
“So are you going to suck it or not?” he said matter-of-factly, gesturing at his lap.
I smacked him hard against the face. Leaving him stunned, I ran to the gate and begged for the attention of a passing cab. As I slid onto the familiar vinyl and breathed in the comforting musty smell of the old reliable chariot, I thanked the heavens for another night of sex free sheets.
He approached my on the dirty side walk outside of the annual car show, well his crew approached me is a more honest description of the situation. A tall meaty man thrust himself in front of me and demanded my attention. I nervously tugged on my earring, while trying to look away. I had been in New York long enough to know anyone demanding attention was probably the sort that didn’t deserve it. I learned this lesson the hard way after having a garbage can thrown at me by a strung out junkie outside my office. Still, even now it was stil hard to resist the urge to be nice. I blame years of growing up in the religious mid-west, where everyone was sweet as peaches to your face and equally as sour behind your back. I walked forward staring attentively at the ground, as if the crusty urine stained sidewalk was a work of modern art that masterfully grabbed my attention.
“He wants to talk to you.” The fleshy man said, inserting himself in my path. Man, he was relentless.
“If he wants to talk to me, he can be a man and talk to me. I’m an adult, I don’t play telephone.” I kept walking, now with my head held high. I was too old for this. Catcalls were for chumps.
“Look I’d like to take you on a date.” I looked up to see a sultry sex god, smiling back at me, holding out his phone.” Can I get you’re number? I’ll call you.”
“I’d like that.” I felt my lips part and my face melt into a cheesy grin. Before I knew what was happening I was twirling my hair and giggling. Of course chocolate man candy, could have my number. He could have all my numbers. My date of birth. My age. My high school locker code. My diary password. Take them. Take all the numbers. He could play sesame street, he’d be the Count as long as I could be his tickle me Elmo. For a sexless wonder woman, I sure knew how to flirt. I was born the perfect genetic make up of a tease.
We chatted for a bit. Non of the words were memorable, but the way he looked at me I would never forget. He liked that I was funny. I liked that he was aloof. Let’s be honest, I liked that he treated me as if I was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. A few minutes turned in an hour and soon the neighborhood became dark around us.
” I don’t want to go home.” He said, placing his hand in his jean jacket and shrugging. ” Take a walk with me around the park?” He gestured to a park, just a few blocks up.
It felt like my New York romantic-comedy movie moment; how could I resist? Something magical was bound to happen. Maybe it would rain or fresh powdery flakes of snow would fall. Perhaps we’d meet an eccentric homeless person who would bless us with a gift of a rose and the ultimate romantic beginning to our love story. Whatever was just beyond those garden gates, I was certain would change my life forever.
Nervously, I obliged as he took my hand and led me into the park. The night has come fast. It was so dark I could barely make out anything other than the two rats fighting valiantly over a few cheetos carelessly spilled by a child earlier that day. I noticed that at night the park became a different place than in the daylight. Friendly trees providing gentle shade to a hot summers day, became thorny beasts creaking in the wind. The delightful smell of fresh grass, was lost with out the sun to warm it’s fragrance into the air. Instead the garden smelled of the stale air at a concert port-a-potty.
He sat on a worn wooden bench and gestured me to join him. Eager to replace my sad reflections on the park at night, with a charming moment from a budding romance, I nestled in next to him. I pressed against his body adsorbing his warmth. He tenderly took my face in my hands, I felt my temperature rise and my palms sweat. He was going to kiss me. I could feel it. This was our beginning. I batted my lashes staring straight into his big eyes and waited. He paused and after what seemed like forever he finally spoke.
“So are you going to suck it or not?” he said matter-of-factly, gesturing at his lap.
I smacked him hard against the face. Leaving him stunned, I ran to the gate and begged for the attention of a passing cab. As I slid onto the familiar vinyl and breathed in the comforting musty smell of the old reliable chariot, I thanked the heavens for another night of sex free sheets.
"Then Friday, during a business meeting, genius struck. So Imagine this, I am on a phone call- actively participating mind you- while at the same time slathering my body in temporary tattoos and painting my face dramatically with watercolor face sticks. Thank god, no cameras or screen sharing was involved, or I would have had a lot to explain. Or not so much. My work gets me."
March 2016
"My work life is pretty intense sometimes. So it wasn’t a total surprise when my boss was like “ you need to stay two more days in NYC.” But at the same time, I was totally unprepared. I had nothing to wear, literally. I had packed dresses in lieu of pants, so I had no easy way to rework an outfit from the last few days. Plus, I needed to be dressed to take a client out on the town Thursday night. So it’s not like I could just buy a few crappy t-shirts and make it work. I had to get crafty."
May 2016
So months a go I reached a dark place in my life. My underwear drawer needed a makeover- stat. I had been reduced to a few pairs of panties I loved, but were busted. Worse yet, had no clue where I had actually purchased them from. Sure I had other pairs of underwear, but every pair I seemed to buy fell apart on me after one of two wears or were cut so poorly I had to wear 30x my normal size. Basically putting on panties, was a daily sense of ugh. My bras were in just as poor a state. The underwires had started a rebellion and were leaving my over the should boulder holders in masses. I hated the way they felt. I hated the way they looked. I just plain hated them. Based on the state of my closest, I got my credit card out and began a Lewis and Clarke expedition through the land of negligee. Over the next 3 weeks I’ll be sharing my results.
First up, my favorite bralettes. Important thing to note: The more support you get, the less of the “I’m wearing pajama jam underwear” feeling you get. I feel like this is a necessary trade off, but I can’t help but ask the time traveling future me to Bill and Ted me back a solution where I don’t have to make trade offs.
Forever 21: These are the most comfortable bralettes I’ve come across. They’re excellent for adding extra support to a beach dress or to travel in. The cons: if it’s cold people will know, they offer less over all support than other bralettes and aren’t great as an all-purpose solution. These sell out fast, so if you see one, buy it. It wont be available for long.
Wet Seal: A new entrant to the plus size game, Wet Seal’s bralettes sell out less quickly than Forever 21 and offer comparable support. I am really digging their color options as well. I’ve had the opportunity to try them on, but unfortunately my credit card gave me a frowny face when it came time to purchase.
Boohoo: These are my go to for sexy night looks, where I plan to wear the bralette as more of of a shirt than a bra. They fit well and have the best nipple coverage of the three bralette brands I have in rotation. That said, they still don’t have enough support to keep the girls from flying solo during a night of dancing.
Torrid: Torrid makes the best bralette for support hands down. They are well cut and cute. While they lack the extreme comfort of the less supportive bras, you wont have surprise boob movement or be able to tell the weather to strangers based on your nips. Over all they are still 100% more comfortable then a traditional bra, while providing oodles of sassy support.
First up, my favorite bralettes. Important thing to note: The more support you get, the less of the “I’m wearing pajama jam underwear” feeling you get. I feel like this is a necessary trade off, but I can’t help but ask the time traveling future me to Bill and Ted me back a solution where I don’t have to make trade offs.
Forever 21: These are the most comfortable bralettes I’ve come across. They’re excellent for adding extra support to a beach dress or to travel in. The cons: if it’s cold people will know, they offer less over all support than other bralettes and aren’t great as an all-purpose solution. These sell out fast, so if you see one, buy it. It wont be available for long.
Wet Seal: A new entrant to the plus size game, Wet Seal’s bralettes sell out less quickly than Forever 21 and offer comparable support. I am really digging their color options as well. I’ve had the opportunity to try them on, but unfortunately my credit card gave me a frowny face when it came time to purchase.
Boohoo: These are my go to for sexy night looks, where I plan to wear the bralette as more of of a shirt than a bra. They fit well and have the best nipple coverage of the three bralette brands I have in rotation. That said, they still don’t have enough support to keep the girls from flying solo during a night of dancing.
Torrid: Torrid makes the best bralette for support hands down. They are well cut and cute. While they lack the extreme comfort of the less supportive bras, you wont have surprise boob movement or be able to tell the weather to strangers based on your nips. Over all they are still 100% more comfortable then a traditional bra, while providing oodles of sassy support.
I hate nearly every term for underwear. Panties? They sound like a term for baby pants. Briefs? That would like the type of work that has you clawing your eyes at 3 pm when you realize you have 2 hours left and not enough sanity to bare it. Bikinis? All the fun of the name, but none of the vacation, sandy beaches and tropical drinks that come with it. Thongs? Those were ruined by an unfortunate song in the 90s. Thanks Sisqo.
What I also hated, for the longest time, was how there were simply no good, every day underwear options. For example, panties that rocked some awesome butt cleavage or barely cover your naughty bits, were available a plenty. Also available? Underwear big enough and high enough to double as a crop top. I am not kidding. I almost bought a pair to prove this very point. It would have been an awesome crop top. But these options as every day panties? Nope.
So I started a mission, I would try every brand I possibly could until I found those diamonds in the lingerie drawer. And try underwear, I did. Tons of it. I wasted so much money. I got frustrated many times that I had just spent money on things that were terrible, itchy, and in some cases left scratch marks on my thighs like a wild animal clawing away from lady bits. But in the end I emerged with 4 solid solutions. And frankly it was totally worth it.
One: Cheap + Cheerful- Marks and Spencer Cotton Rich Midi Knickers
There’s nothing fancy about these basic cotton panties, but that’s exactly why they’re the best. For $12 a pack, they’re a bargain. The midi rise offers a lot of coverage with out feeling like I’m wearing a sexless pair of grayed haired grandma panties. The cotton construction makes them breathable and ideal for day to day wear. They aren’t as durable as the other pairs I came to love, but the price is right and the construction is good.
Two: Underwear to live in- Tomboy X Boy Shorts
I originally ordered these undies because I liked the brand’s mission, being both size inclusive and advocate for empowering women. That said, when I first got these boy shorts in the mail I was skeptical. I loved the styling, but I felt like they were going to end up like most cotton banded underwear-feeling heavy, bunchy and just getting weird in my down under. However, I lived in these underwear for 24 hours and I actually had separation anxiety when I had to put them into the wash. I also immediately called my girlfriend who wears men’s underwear because girl gear is too “frou frou” for her and demanded she buy a pair. Writing this blurb actually reminded me to go and buy a few more pairs and I see they have these adorable rainbow banded pairs for pride week. I’ll take two.
Three: Glamour + Comfort- Hanky Panky Retro V-kini
Every pair of underwear with lace that I had tested to this point has ripped either in the first wear or in the first wash, I was pretty much wearing my lace face of ultimate disgrace when I laid down $37 for another pair of lace underwear . So it was with great hesitation I put my card down knowing I’d be kissing away my drink money for the week for a pair of underwear that would likely disintegrate in my hands. After wearing the pair I was pretty impressed, comfortable and lacy.. who knew that existed. I dropped them in the washer and said a prayer. They emerged unscathed. It was like a panty miracle. 10 washes later, this pair still looks like new. So yeah, they’re expensive, but you wont be replacing them as often. And with a variety of cuts that I enjoy, I know I can even wear these when I want to add a little spice to my outfit. Pro tip: shop the sale section, same great panties, half the price.
Four: The Anti-Chaf Champion- Thigh Society
Thigh Society read a post of mine about wearing bike shorts under dresses to prevent chub rub in India and gave me a pair of the high rise anti-chafing panty short to test. I was super impressed. Usually the only “anti-chaf shorts/underwear” are shape wear. Which means you have to feel like a sausage stuffed in a casing of underwear hell to prevent chub rub. Thigh Society is different. They’re super stretchy, super comfortable, and keep you dry. The last bits important because chafing isn’t just an affect or rubbing, it’s also a result of candy juicy thigh sweat. I wore these babies in million degree weather in Costa Rica and emerged with no panties lines, no chafing and no awkwardly wet bum. These are now my go undergarment for sundress season.
What I also hated, for the longest time, was how there were simply no good, every day underwear options. For example, panties that rocked some awesome butt cleavage or barely cover your naughty bits, were available a plenty. Also available? Underwear big enough and high enough to double as a crop top. I am not kidding. I almost bought a pair to prove this very point. It would have been an awesome crop top. But these options as every day panties? Nope.
So I started a mission, I would try every brand I possibly could until I found those diamonds in the lingerie drawer. And try underwear, I did. Tons of it. I wasted so much money. I got frustrated many times that I had just spent money on things that were terrible, itchy, and in some cases left scratch marks on my thighs like a wild animal clawing away from lady bits. But in the end I emerged with 4 solid solutions. And frankly it was totally worth it.
One: Cheap + Cheerful- Marks and Spencer Cotton Rich Midi Knickers
There’s nothing fancy about these basic cotton panties, but that’s exactly why they’re the best. For $12 a pack, they’re a bargain. The midi rise offers a lot of coverage with out feeling like I’m wearing a sexless pair of grayed haired grandma panties. The cotton construction makes them breathable and ideal for day to day wear. They aren’t as durable as the other pairs I came to love, but the price is right and the construction is good.
Two: Underwear to live in- Tomboy X Boy Shorts
I originally ordered these undies because I liked the brand’s mission, being both size inclusive and advocate for empowering women. That said, when I first got these boy shorts in the mail I was skeptical. I loved the styling, but I felt like they were going to end up like most cotton banded underwear-feeling heavy, bunchy and just getting weird in my down under. However, I lived in these underwear for 24 hours and I actually had separation anxiety when I had to put them into the wash. I also immediately called my girlfriend who wears men’s underwear because girl gear is too “frou frou” for her and demanded she buy a pair. Writing this blurb actually reminded me to go and buy a few more pairs and I see they have these adorable rainbow banded pairs for pride week. I’ll take two.
Three: Glamour + Comfort- Hanky Panky Retro V-kini
Every pair of underwear with lace that I had tested to this point has ripped either in the first wear or in the first wash, I was pretty much wearing my lace face of ultimate disgrace when I laid down $37 for another pair of lace underwear . So it was with great hesitation I put my card down knowing I’d be kissing away my drink money for the week for a pair of underwear that would likely disintegrate in my hands. After wearing the pair I was pretty impressed, comfortable and lacy.. who knew that existed. I dropped them in the washer and said a prayer. They emerged unscathed. It was like a panty miracle. 10 washes later, this pair still looks like new. So yeah, they’re expensive, but you wont be replacing them as often. And with a variety of cuts that I enjoy, I know I can even wear these when I want to add a little spice to my outfit. Pro tip: shop the sale section, same great panties, half the price.
Four: The Anti-Chaf Champion- Thigh Society
Thigh Society read a post of mine about wearing bike shorts under dresses to prevent chub rub in India and gave me a pair of the high rise anti-chafing panty short to test. I was super impressed. Usually the only “anti-chaf shorts/underwear” are shape wear. Which means you have to feel like a sausage stuffed in a casing of underwear hell to prevent chub rub. Thigh Society is different. They’re super stretchy, super comfortable, and keep you dry. The last bits important because chafing isn’t just an affect or rubbing, it’s also a result of candy juicy thigh sweat. I wore these babies in million degree weather in Costa Rica and emerged with no panties lines, no chafing and no awkwardly wet bum. These are now my go undergarment for sundress season.
August 2016
"Look, I am not one for conferences. I’m the sort that would rather be goofing off in the" sun or exploring, than sitting in a room talking about stuff. So I was super surprised how much I enjoyed The Curvy Fashionista Expo. First off, I got to meet two women I truly have loved from a far for awhile- Jess Baker and Alysse from Ready to Stare. Second, the jams were on point. I found myself dancing around pretty much all day, as might feet reminded me with a heavy sigh when the day was through.
The event went above and beyond to get a healthy mix of well known plus brands and lesser know indie designers. For some, it was there first show. Opportunities like this are important if we want to continue to increase the options available for curvy ladies. Opportunities however have a negative affect on my wallet- but I suppose that was the point of the day!
My only complaint on the whole day is that there were these half naked men (yessssss), carrying cupcake trays (double yasss) but then tried to charge me $4 for said cupcake. I’m sorry, boo, you ain’t that cute. If I am going to pay $4 for a stale cupcake it better be hand delivered by drake, shirtless, bare back on a horse singing over over and over ” I like my girls bbw…”"
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