Mairhe charged to my defense. “Actually, we were just talking about how it makes less of a difference than being pregnant does.” I felt a wave of pride as she stuck up for me, remembering why I had so valued her friendship back in college.
“Well . . .” The antagonist took a few steps toward the door, and groped for a response. “It’s not like women are pregnant all the time!”
Mairhe gave that argument a smirking laugh. “Some women are.”
The other woman’s eyes darted back and forth, she retreated farther toward the door, then attacked the subject from a different angle. “Well!” she huffed, folding her arms in front of herself. “You can’t deny that it’s an exaggerated shape!”
I shrugged. “That’s the point.”
“But it’s not normal!”
She had retreated so much by this point that she was—barely—through the door, so I took control of the handle. “That’s why I like living in a free country.” I shut the door on her.
Mairhe rolled her eyes at the firmly shut door. “Do you get that sort of thing a lot?”
I sighed. “Sometimes. Mostly from idiots, so I try not to let it bother me.”
She shook her head. “It’s the same thing when you’re pregnant. It’s like your body no longer belongs to you or something.”
A discreet hand cradled her belly defensively. She wasn’t showing yet, but she did have one child already, so she spoke from unwelcome experience.
“Perfect strangers want to touch you and ask if you’re taking your vitamins—like it’s any of their business. Are you taking your vitamins?” The last was a muttered aside, as though directed toward remembered busybodies. “They even try to take food away from you that they don’t think you should be eating—I’ll damn well eat a tuna-fish sandwich if I want to eat a tuna-fish sandwich!”
I remembered the advice surrounding seafood from my childhood. “They used to say that children had to eat fish to make their brains develop properly.” I had read fairly recent studies that still supported this idea; they even insisted on the benefits of piscine protein during pregnancy, concerns about mercury notwithstanding.
Mairhe nodded, agreeing. “And God forbid you should try to order a glass of wine with a meal. They’d probably call the cops or something.”
I remembered my French host-mother from my foreign studies, lecturing me and the other ètrangéres girls about the importance of alcohol to women in maintaining cardiac health. I pulled on my modern petticoat.
“Everyone has so many different ideas of what constitutes a healthy lifestyle, it’s pretty ridiculous to try to inflict your own opinions about it on a stranger.” I paused, holding my blouse. “And even if it were unhealthy—which I don’t think corseting is—what business is it of theirs, anyway?”
“Yeah, exactly: none. It’s not affecting them, so what right do they have to complain about it?” She leaned back, folding her arms.
“The funny thing,” I continued, pulling on my blouse and threading its shell buttons through their holes, “is that the people I get the most adamant objections from about the corset are the women—and it’s always women—who are the same ones who’d be the first to say ‘Hands off my body’ about other issues.”
Mairhe shook her head, taking a deep breath. “It’s crazy. I wonder if you’ve heard about a campaigner for body issues . . .”
Our conversation grew increasingly academic as we cited and discussed various sources. Gabriel returned and Mairhe helped us repack the car. She gave me a big hug before departure and promised to see us at our next event.
“Tricora” nursing corset. Price: 90 cents each.
25
A Victorian Lady’s Dressing Sequence
An 1897 Sears, Roebuck & Co. Catalogue illustration of underwear.
Mary Lee had arranged three events for us, each of them slightly different. The next was scheduled for several weeks after the first, and we used the interceding time to organize and rehearse our presentation. This was to be a formal presentation of a Victorian lady’s dressing sequence in all its layers, from the innermost intimate garments to the outer winter finery. I would be starting in a corset and pantalets (with modern panties underneath the latter to retain decency in front of an audience), and Gabriel would act as my “lady’s maid” while we explained each item subsequently layered over these. By the end, I would be dressed in a full winter visiting outfit, complete with cape and muff: a Victorian lady prepared to go calling.
I was very much looking forward to the presentation, but it would be a falsehood to say there was not a certain amount of anxiety laced into the idea of appearing publicly in my underwear. I felt a little silly for this nervousness. After all, the corset alone covered nearly as much flesh as a one-piece swimsuit, and the pantalets I’d be wearing came down nearly to my knees. I’d be showing significantly less peau than most women on modern beaches—as long as there were no clothing malfunctions. This was my biggest concern: besides her rather psychotic price increases and timing delays, my last corsetière had created figures with far too little room in the bust, cut so low in the cups that my bosom could—and did—fall out on occasion. I had no desire to reenact Janet Jackson’s infamous Super Bowl blunder in front of a live audience. However, the corset is such an integral and intriguing item of a Victorian woman’s wardrobe that I would have been remiss in presenting the sequence if I hadn’t shown stays to the audience.
I practiced motion in front of a mirror, experimenting with the exact optimal position for holding my shoulders back in proper Victorian posture without pulling my bosom loose of the malfitting corset top. For extra security, I ordered yardage of “swans-down” (actually turkey down formed into a fluffy boa, although the Victorians would have had actual swan feathers as a high-end trim, with cheaper turkey feathers offered as an inexpensive alternative marketed under the same name). I carefully sewed this along the bustline of the corset I would be wearing for the presentation, which added several inches of concealment to the top of the garment. I gave Gabriel strict instructions to get the corset cover over me as quickly as possible, and we practiced the sequence in our apartment, going over the entire presentation, but practicing this initial rapid-cover even more than the rest of the dressing.
Once I was reasonably confident that I could man-age this initial stage of the presentation without inadvertently imitating Gypsy Rose Lee, my anxieties calmed down by a significant extent. I scripted out the points we wanted to be sure to cover in our presentation, and we continued refining our speeches. Besides practicing the presentation inside and out, I poured myself into publicizing it. I invited nearly everyone I knew, however ancillary the acquaintance. First, all my friends were invited, as well as my family. I contacted casual acquaintances stretching back to high school, and friended people on Facebook whom I hadn’t seen in more than a decade, specifically to extend invitations. I asked people to invite their friends, even going to the length of writing to an old buddy in a different time zone to request that anyone he knew still in the area be invited. I printed out flyers about the day and, keeping a supply in my purse, handed them out to everyone who complimented my outfits.
Our first event had been attending an exhibit opening; this second appearance would be a presentation to accompany a benefit event for local artists. Since we would be traveling more than 120 miles in a single day for the sake of this event, it seemed only sensible to take full advantage of the situation, so I decided to ask the officials in charge how far they were willing to extend the definition of “local.”
I had, by this point, been writing books for several years, and binding them by hand for a portion of that time. The finished products were beautiful works of art, hand-sewn and bound in covers ranging from cloth, to leather, to silk. One showed off real seed pearls sewn onto silk charmeuse representing tidal foam, while on another (in whose plot bicycles played a major role) I’d hand-embroidered tire tracks and bordered the title with crystal. The event officials were deli
ghted when they heard of my books and said that I would be welcome to set up a table from which to sell my books when we were not actively presenting our dressing sequence. The upcoming day grew increasingly anticipated with every added excitement.
One of our neighbors, Yukiko, expressed an interest in seeing us present; she was a sweet, kind soul (and we wanted more people anyway), so we pressed her to come. When she fretted that she had no transportation to Olympia, we offered her a ride. At the time, it seemed as though we were doing her a favor, but by the end of the day, we would develop a tremendous appreciation for the copious help she cheerfully provided. On the morning of the event, we piled ourselves and our carefully packed clothing into a borrowed car, then drove down to the state capital in high spirits.
Yukiko helped us carry our various garment bags, boxes, and accoutrements into the museum, along with my stock of books and accompanying supplies. It took several trips, and even before anything was properly set up, I was grateful for her help. By the time the day was over, I was to find that gratitude expanded by orders of magnitude.
While I set up the bookselling table, Gabriel sought out the office where we would be getting dressed for the presentation. (Rather, I should describe it as the office where he would be getting dressed. I would actually be getting undressed there, stripping down to my corset before descending the building’s grand staircase for the presentation.)
I sold a respectable number of books once the artist’s event opened. Yukiko offered subtle but very helpful assistance by steering people in my direction. She took over the table for me several times when I had to check on details about the dressing sequence, or when she had spotted particular delicacies appearing on the refreshments table and encouraged me to partake in them. I was quite lucky to have her minding my nutritional needs in this way; we had skipped lunch on the long ride down to Olympia, and it would have presented entirely the wrong image if I had passed out from hypoglycemia mid-presentation. I had spent more than a year trying to disabuse people of such stereotyped notions as corsets causing fainting spells; the last thing I wanted was to give them a false support of this image simply because I had missed a meal.
Mary Lee arrived and verified last-minute details. Having an actual, concrete task in front of me, I was much calmer than at the last event. Nevertheless, as the clock hands turned to the time of the presentation, I shouldn’t deny that there were a few butterflies in my stomach, competing for space with my nibbled tea cakes and strawberries.
It was my custom at this time to wear my nine-teen-inch corset (vanity sizing—the actual size was twenty-one inches) with approximately an inch and a half of open area at the back between the two halves of the lacing panel. Immediately before the presentation, I asked Gabriel to cinch it down that last increment of space, closing it completely.
An 1895 ladies’ summer corset, made of openwork material for coolness. Price: 40 cents.
He grinned, followed my instructions, then asked with an inquiring look, “Is that going to be okay?”
I took a breath, assessing the condition of my body. I smiled and nodded at Gabriel. “Ready.”
He went down first, into the museum’s main reception area, and explained the nature of the presentation. I waited upstairs amongst the exhibits, feeling very exposed in nothing but corset, panties, and pantalets, and ducking behind a display when a young man passed by.
At last I heard my cue from Gabriel: “And so, without further ado . . .”
I descended the grand staircase, stepping lightly on the carpet in my bare feet. “The corset was the foundation of a Victorian lady’s wardrobe,” I explained, treading carefully. “It gave the appropriate shape to her figure and provided support for her other garments.”
Gabriel met me at the base of the stairs, corset cover in hand, exactly as rehearsed. I reveled in discreet relief that there had been no mishaps.
“This is a corset cover,” he explained, tying it behind my back as I angled away from the audience. “Its function was to protect the dress from the metal clasps of the corset and to soften the corset’s lines . . .”
We continued in this manner through an entire winter outfit: corset cover, garters, stockings, inner petticoat, crinoline, outer petticoat, boots, bodice, skirt, watch, rings, earrings, hat, cape, and muff. Mostly we used actual antiques from our collection; when showing the few exceptions to this (such as the garters), we explained the reason for the substitution. (Nineteenth-century garters, for example, had elastic made of natural rubber, which would have long since lost its elasticity.) In the case of the boots, Gabriel showed off our nineteenth-century antiques (which didn’t fit me), while I laced up my modern replicas (which did).
Mairhe arrived partway through the presentation and took up a position at the back of the audience; her little boy beside her behaved remarkably well for a child so young. Mary Lee beamed from a seat front and center, and some of Gabriel’s classmates perched in a corner. Yukiko took pictures throughout the lecture, in addition to watching over the table of book sales while Gabriel and I were indisposed. Speckled as it was with such a favorable bias, it would have been difficult to picture a more amiable audience. When I finally stood in full regalia, enrobed in furs, wool, and silks, we received a round chorus of applause.
Fashion plate.
26
Fifty Years of Fashion:
A Model Performance
Catalog illustration.
The third event that Mary Lee arranged for us was the most ambitious. We were to be the entertainment at a “pink tea” Mother’s Day fund-raiser, and we’d be presenting fifty years of fashion, from the 1860s through the 1910s. We would start with Gabriel modeling his earliest outfit, an itinerant Irish preacher’s suit from the 1870s. We would each model three outfits in total (my own including an 1870s mourning outfit, an 1890s tea gown, and a linen dress we had dated to 1905), and end the timeline with Gabriel in a seersucker suit with a straw boater hat.
Since the event would take place during Mother’s Day weekend, I offered to buy my mom a ticket to come see us. Wanting to be nice (since it was a gift, after all), I gave her a choice of activities for which I would pay: I would buy her a ticket to the high tea so that she could watch her daughter and son-in-law presenting or I could take her to the zoo. She opted for the zoo. We tried not to be offended that she preferred watching the funny monkeys to seeing us.
Maternal indifference notwithstanding, the event was sold out some time in advance and we spent weeks putting our presentation together. Sangmi, one of the little girls whom I tutored, learned of it (probably from her grapevine of friends, among whom there was a boy Gabriel gave lessons to history), and asked me if my mother would be going.
“Well . . .” I explained about my offer and my mom’s response. Sangmi squinted, then cocked her head at me.
“If I were a grown-up,” she informed me, clearly examining a situation she found odd in the extreme, “I’d rather see my kids than see monkeys!”
I sighed, shrugged, and directed her attention back to her grammar.
The idea behind the presentation was a fairly straightforward one—ambitious, but straightforward. We would model a series of outfits from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, using the clothing as visual aids while we talked about the ways in which fashions had changed. We knew it would be difficult with only two of us as models, but we judged that we were up to the challenge. We forgot that fate often enjoys turning a moderate challenge into a much bigger one.
Since this presentation was much more complicated than our last and would involve a number of changes of clothing, the group for whose benefit we were performing arranged for a helper for each of us to aid us in getting dressed. Mine was a sweet young college girl, who oohed and ahhed over each article of clothing.
The organization for whom we were raising funds allocated us the spare lavatory as a dressing room. Though this was somewhat suboptimal, we decided we could make do with it. There was no way we cou
ld have anticipated what an absurd problem was to arise halfway through the presentation, because it would be so far outside the realm of reason.
The presentation of the first few outfits went beautifully. Gabriel showed off his suit from the 1870s, which had once belonged to an itinerant Irish preacher. The audience loved all the detailed work on it, most especially the gold shamrocks on its silken lining, and the “lovers’ pockets.” This type of pocket was de rigueur on Victorian men’s frock coats and cutaway coats. Designed for tucking away gloves in a place where their bulk will not interfere with a man’s silhouette and the fit of his coat, these pockets were located at the back, in the tails of the garment. Their hidden location made them convenient for hiding things, such as clandestine letters, hence their nickname.
My mourning outfit was similarly well received, with hushed exclamations of shock rippling through the attendees expressing amazement at the way it showed off my figure.
Even before we had timed everything out in our numerous practice sessions, we had known that our biggest challenge would be Gabriel’s changes of outfit. There were so many layers and complex fastenings involved (not to mention the ties) that there was really no way around it. My dresses were much simpler, and it was my job to keep us on schedule. As Gabriel walked into the presentation hall in his 1880s business suit, I glanced discreetly at the clock. We were running a bit behind our ideal timing, but I knew I could make it up on the next change: my upcoming outfit was a simple tea gown, a one-piece flannel wrapper. It would take no time at all to don—barring extraneous circumstances.
This was the place in our carefully prepared presentation when something so absurd transpired we could not possibly have anticipated it. I had just gotten out of my mourning outfit and was in my underwear when an angry knock sounded on the lavatory door. “I have to use this bathroom!” called a belligerent woman’s voice.
Victorian Secrets Page 22
