Putting My Outdated Underthings Out to Pasture

Melanie Chartoff weeds out from her chest of drawers the pieces of lingerie that no longer serve her at 75.

Cardrona Valley Breast Bra Fence, Cancer Foundation, New Zealand. Photo © Melanie Chartoff.

Dressing for an event the other night, I yanked open the brassiere drawer of my antique chest (no pun intended). And much like my childhood jack-in-the box, a compressed projectile of bosom-constraining paraphernalia exploded before my eyes and spilled onto the rug. You name it: removable silicone gel cutlets, booster pads, tangled elastic stretch straps, strapless bras, halter-style racer backs, underwired front loaders, back hookers, jogger bras, hydraulic push-ups, boned longlines, and work-out tops with perky built-ins. They were everywhere.

Who needs all this, I thought, ankle deep in underthings. I only have two breasts.

I’d stuffed them all in and shoved the chest’s drawers shut before leaving town the month before. For ages I’d left that drawer ajar, in denial of its overabundance of past-their-prime skivvies hanging limp over the sides like dead snakes. They smelled strongly of a stale lavender sachet that couldn’t quite mask a scent of mildew, like I imagine Miss Havisham’s undies might have exuded.

High time to downsize my drawers, I decided.

I began sorting to choose the keepers—the ones that fit, felt comfy and practical. I slashed some apart with scissors. Strolling down mammary lane, I tried on every remaining intact bra, trying to recall an occasion when I’d worn it.

I struggled to find the grayish-brown one that worked with the opaque top I longed to wear that very moment. Most of the undergarments were tangled in a blur of beige. The delectable confections of violet and red—sexy, pad-free revealers—were easier to find, so I reconceived my look and went with an off-the-shoulder, clingy red sweater for the evening. Yes. I grabbed a red bra which I knew would look sexy with a bit of its lace showing, and tried to pull it loose from the drawer. But this Gordian knot proved my undoing without a prayer of my undoing it. So, I hid my torso in a suit jacket that night.

The next day I began sorting to choose the keepers—the ones that fit, felt comfy and practical. I slashed some apart with scissors. Strolling down mammary lane, I tried on every remaining intact bra, trying to recall an occasion when I’d worn it. In a suitcase in the garage I stored a few that no longer fit as mementos of wilder times—the nipple-itchers, the hydraulic pusher-uppers, the Wonder Bras with matching Wonder Butts thongs with sister size stuffings—to remind me who I once was. Maybe I’d frame them, recycle or bequeath them to my stepdaughter...

Nah, probably not.

“My tidied chest of drawers. ©Melanie Chartoff 2024”

All the bouncy off-the-rack bras I’d bought in mall department stores were easy to set free. They looked like cloned sets of cookie-cutter cones. Manufactured in faraway lands with little appreciation of American women’s defiant individuality, they seemed like platoons of identical twins saluting in sync. They no longer housed my shifting breasts, nor appealed to my tastes. Good riddance.

Even though my new (and only) husband couldn’t care less about lace, it felt important for me to hang onto some of the gossamer relics. I reflected on their utility and originality, the provocative choices I once made, and my frugality in hoarding them. I’ll miss the versatile, exhibitionist single girl I used to be.

I saved one functional version of each breed—strapless, backless, push-up, halter, and the convertible with adjustable straps, even though I knew I might rarely convert or adjust ever again. But I now had a deficit of everyday, décolleté-understating minimizers.

Even though my new (and only) husband couldn’t care less about lace, it felt important for me to hang onto some of the gossamer relics. I reflected on their utility and originality, the provocative choices I once made, and my frugality in hoarding them. I’ll miss the versatile, exhibitionist single girl I used to be.

I headed to the department store with determination and dread. The young women who waited on me there were cute and perky like my bosom used to be. I wondered, Can they possibly grasp my dilemma? They hadn’t yet faced the kinds of changes my 75-year-old body has been through. Had their bodies been through any relatable changes, given that they seemed to be about two years post-puberty, tops? I tried on the few they suggested, and the generation gap showed in the spaces under my arms. Uncomfortable with my questions, answering only in generalities, they suggested I leave this brick-and-mortar world in which people actually make eye contact and touch one another, go home, and order online.

Order Melanie Chartoff’s book…

Order online? I had no idea what size I might be these days without the flesh-prodding, matronly, fitting experts of yesteryear pronouncing me “34C or 36B.” Oh, how I longed for a seasoned helper’s dexterity and bluntness: “You’re too much woman for this,” or “You go in the wrong direction for that cup,” or “That left one’s much bigger—amazing you don’t tip over.” Where are those wise elders I used to trust to shove and heft me into the perfect point, cleave, or underarm swell?

I guess I am them now.

I realized I had no choice but to make do with what I already owned. I eased and hooked myself into the comfier confinements in my drawer, no longer so willing to push my babes around. I soaked the old remains in Downy, washed them in Woolite, dried them in the sun so they smelled wholesome. I lined the drawer with lilac-scented paper, put in my fewer treasures, and slid the newly edited drawer easily closed.

Now I plan to get into my other drawers. I’ll sort the onesie camisoles from the bikinis: the little boy undies that bunch in the crotch from the comfy ones; the granny pants for bloaty days that I’d saved for nutty nostalgic reasons, even with the elastic completely shot, from the ‘what-was-I-thinking?’-style thongs.

That thong and dance is now over, I think to myself.

It’s time to let go of vampy, girlish things and accept that I’m now an irreversibly post-menopausal, mature, married, modern 75-year-old woman.

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Previously Melanie Chartoff wrote “Know Your Nonagenarians” for Oldster Magazine.