Thoroughly Modern Me:

I was in my bedroom, rummaging through my closet for an outfit to wear to our cast party. I had already pulled on my shiny black “shapewear.” I knew from experience that you cannot put these on like a normal piece of clothing. I had pulled mine out of the freezer, and flopped on my back like turtle that had been turned on its back. Then I wriggled and rolled and flopped around as I pulled what they called a girdle in my mother’s day over my defiant hips. With a final snap over my stomach, I pushed my elbows into the mattress, rocked back and forth, and hoisted myself up.

I was already beginning to sweat. It is impossible to wear panties because the embarrassment of a panty line protruding through your clothing is worse than the discomfort of the tight Spandex. I opened the top drawer of my dresser and pulled out the matching camisole with the built-in underwire bra. The only way to get this garment on is to step into it—if you try to put it on over your head, you’ll get stuck. It’s like solo women’s wrestling.

I stood in front of the full length mirror, panting. I had only performed with the chorus, well not even the chorus, but I wanted to look as sharp as the lead actress at the party. I wanted to strut my stuff, but I could hardly walk.

I performed in the spring musical all four years in high school. I had always loved musical theater, but college and work turned me into a responsible adult. When the small town of Olathe, Kansas announced the reopening of their community theater after thirty years, I decided to take the 35 mile drive from Kansas City to audition. I was thrilled to be cast as one of the four “other women.” My part consisted of no dialog, a few refrains in a couple of songs, and primarily moving scenery and props—in character—in front of the audience between scenes.

Besides the camraderie with the other others, the best part was the costume—a flapper dress. Mine was black and white. The boxy dress with the waistline around my hips was the most comfortable dress I had ever worn The fringed hemline rested just above my knee. Although we had to wear stockings, they were not attached to a garter belt, but rolled to just above the knee. Mine were a shade darker than my faux-beaded dress. The straight, loose fit of 1920’s dress was originally designed so free-spirited women could dance to jazz music in smoky clubs.

The flapper dress is surprisingly seductive. Although the woman’s figure is hidden, her bare shoulders and shimmer from her beads make her seem alluring rather than raunchy. I have to admit, wearing it made me feel captivating. The whole point of the flapper dress was freedom—freedoms experienced from working outside the home, a push for equal rights, greater mobility, technological innovation and disposable income—these ideas exposed women to new places, ideas and ways of living. A woman’s personal fulfillment and independence became priorities. In that post-pandemic moment of the early twentieth century, she became a more modern, carefree spirit where anything seemed possible.

So why was I standing here, me, a thoroughly modern woman, restricted in a sausage casing? Why was I willing to subject myself to meralgia paresthetica, a painful burning and tingling in the thighs when too much pressure is put on the nerves in the groin area? Why was I willing to hold in my pee for hours just to avoid wrestling with my shape ware? Why would I risk compressing my bowels or having my legs turn blue.

“No more!” I shouted to myself in the mirror. “This ends here.” I went to my nightstand and took out a pair of scissors. Rather than pull my camisole back down, I started at my sternum and sliced it down the front. Not wanting to draw blood, I pulled the waistband of the briefs as far away as I could from my stomach and snipped before the elastic could snap back against my skin. Even when I was free, I continued to cut the shape ware to pieces. Frayed black ribbons fell around me like burnt flesh. I stepped over the carnage, and an insistent piece of Spandex clung to my left heel as I moved over to the chair in the corner.

“This is the dress I am going to wear,” I announced. “This is the only style dress I am ever going to wear.”

I picked up my costume, the one I was supposed to return before the party. I had no intention of returning my flapper dress. I slipped the lined dress over my head, and it billowed over my body, falling comfortably over my curves. I shimmied over to the dresser and pulled out a pretty pair of cotton undies. I stood in front of the mirror and admired the woman smiling back at me.

“I’m Thoroughly Modern Me.” I put the matching cloche hat over my bobbed hair. I turned and glanced at my reflection over my shoulder. Now let’s go dance and be free like it’s 1921.”