Today’s Wednesday’s word and the eighth item I’m thankful for is: “slip.”
I’m not talking about losing one’s balance, although I do that a lot, falling to the floor in an unflattering heap. That kind of slip is nothing I’m grateful for.
I’m not talking about making a gaffe either, although on occasion I’ve made a few spectacular ones. And even though once removed from the immediate embarrassing moment these slips have mostly brought immense mirth, they are hardly worthy of admiration.
I’m also not talking about escaping someone’s company, even though I’ve been grateful many a time to do so.
I’m talking about an undergarment.
Full-slip. Half-slip. Hoop slip. Slip.
When I was a child and even a teen, the selections in the Intimates section of the department stores I frequented with my Mother, D.H. Holmes, McRae’s, Parisian, Gayfers, were quite extensive. In an array of flesh-tone colors ranging from white to black with the occasional splash of pink or red; in an array of lengths, from mini to floor; in an array of fabrics or fabric blends, but mostly nylon; with an array of lace panels, insets and slits, they hung on endless rounder after rounder.
The slip was important. If you purchased a dress, a suit, or a skirt of any length, you likewise purchased a slip, unless of course you already had an appropriate one at home. They were essential to dressing properly.
Nowadays true slips (not the “squeeze’ em, cinch ’em, bind ’em” sort that are all the rage), like hosiery, have been pared down to a few paltry selections, because women simply aren’t buying them or wearing them anymore. But they really, most definitely should.
This is why, and why I am ever so thankful for slips:
A slip helps a garment to hang properly. Their slippery surfaces enable one’s clothes to fall into place rather than cling to the leg or the thigh, or, God forbid, get stuck in one’s unmentionables.
A slip hides your unmentionables from ogling eyes and prevents bright light from spotlighting every dip, dent and curve of one’s leg all the way up to the hoo haa, a la Lady Diana Spencer when she was revealed to be dating Prince Charles, but accidentally revealed so much more.
A slip prevents the ruination of fabrics from sweat in the summertime, which even with air conditioning we Southerners know a whole lot about. And it helps to keep one warmer in the wintertime, by adding an extra layer of insulation.
I know I’m a bit old-fashioned, but any trip away from one’s house reveals the need for the return of the slip. Bras, panties, or the lack thereof, all on display for the world to see. Material clinging to lumpy bumpy legs and bunching in obscene places are everyday occurrences. Panty-lines, muffin tops, cellulite in view wherever you look.
Simply put, a slip helps cover up a multitude of sins. It helps you look better, and at 42 with a multitude of ills beginning to show on my own body I am grateful for all the help I can get. I would be even more grateful if more people put them on.