Frilly undies turned me into a rebel

I’m really grateful that women in my family have always had great taste in underwear. I grew up with bejewelled wisps of chiffon dancing in the breeze on the washing line in the garden. It was a constant conga line of jewel tone tooth floss shimmying its way through the tea towels. I grew up knowing my ruffles, my polka dots, my rhinestones. The backless, sideless, and shameless. The demure, mature and velour. (Just kidding. This isn’t the 80s.)

And as soon as I was old enough to buy my own undies, I was saving up for elegant high-waisted silky ones, for frothy, fun ruffled ones and for the ‘‘sheesh that costs the same as a small house in Hamilton’’ Agent Provocateur ones that I’d keep in the box, wrapped in paper, and just sneak peeks at occasionally. I loved them in the same way I like parrots and neon pink hair – I like things that are outrageous and gorgeous.

And is there any other item of clothing where designers are allowed to go so completely to town? Pearls? Yes! Lace applique´ ? Yes! Marabou feather trim? Why not! Put the whole ostrich on there, beak and all! These bright little buttons of blush and tulle made every other item of clothing look like a bin bag in comparison.

And before you ask, yes, it was for me. Bearing in mind I didn’t get my first kiss until 19, the only person who saw my bejewelled babies were me and the girls in the changing room at school and the swimming pools.

They were the problem. Well, I call them a problem, but the whole point of this article is really an extended thank you to them. See, without those girls and their reactions to my sparkly undies, I would never have wanted to rebel, nor had the chance to practise the art of continual micro-rebellion that turned me into the stroppy, riotous, blasphemous woman I am today.

See, there’s no force on earth so potently bitchy as 16-year-old girls. So when my high-waisted, ruffled vintage granny pants made their PE changing room debut, there was vitriolic derision all round. They liked the G-strings even less. And if I wore anything with rhinestones, you’d have thought I’d strapped a small fluffy animal to me and suffocated it between my butt cheeks.

My undies got me generally, and loudly, branded as a whore. It was my first and furious introduction to slut-shaming, where I realised that women have a very nasty habit of shaming anyone who disobeys our socially conservative norms.

I learned later on that everyone, especially other women, have an opinion on a woman’s appearance and clothes. When she is looking too frumpy, too slutty, too promiscuous, too dangerous, too conservative, too modest, too distracting . . . And this was my first introduction to how to subvert this stupidity.

I knew it was right to wear my frilly pants. There was nothing immoral, dirty or scandalous about their ruffled folds. For me they represented both fun, flirty happiness and general artistic beauty. Both of which I think the world could do with more of.

I also come from a long line of dressmakers. We know good art when we see it, and nothing is going to stop us from wearing it – least of all socially repressed white girl bougie bitches.

So by continuing to wear them proudly, despite all the slut-shaming, I could pull a bejewelled middle finger at this casual societal nastiness. It was the very definition of a velvet rebellion.

And what I loved about the micro-rebellion of wearing nice underwear is that it is a training ground for the larger art of rebellion itself. It was the perfect storm in a B-cup for teaching me that, at its heart, bucking societal norms is never easy and comfortable. You may be right, but that doesn’t stop people mocking you.

Not only that, but the pants let me practise rebelling every day. Rebellion is a honed skill that takes a while to get used to as it continually grates against our overwhelming desire to fit in.

So I got plenty of chances to build up my rebelliousness, specifically every 3rd and 4th period of Tuesdays and Thursday school days. And over time, I got really good at not giving a s... about people who were wrong. It stood me in excellent stead for my ambitions to be a columnist, where you are bombarded constantly by people calling you ignorant, idiotic, softie pinkie leftie scum.

The best thing about the whole experience was how mad it made me.

When your undies get challenged, it’s a deeply personal thing. This makes the rage that comes from someone else telling you what goes on your bum an especially potent one.

So it became a firecracker of an introduction to the art of rebelling, and it lit sparks that will hopefully last a lifetime.

When your undies get challenged, it’s a deeply personal thing.