On Slow Consumerism

I laid all the lingerie out on the bed before deciding which drawer it would go in.

There was so much of it. Half my checked bag had been lingerie, compressed into packing cubes. I’d been keeping it spread across two dressers at the old place. Until now, I’d never seen it all in one room.

I had been secretly into lingerie since I was freshly in university. Browsing the websites, knowing the brand names, looking at things I had no reason to wear. It felt like a category I was visiting rather than something that could actually be mine. I’d been raised in the kind of household where buying expensive underwear was self-indulgent. The good things were for other people, or for after some imagined later when I’d earned them.

When I became Bella, it was the first thing I bought.

The first couple of years, I bought constantly. Every piece I’d ever bookmarked, every set I’d quietly admired, anything that came across my feed and caught me. The buying felt like permission, finally letting myself have the things I’d been looking at for so long. Each piece arriving in the mail was its own small event. I’d try them on, photograph myself wearing them, file them carefully in ziplock bags.

I didn’t notice for a while that I was wearing the same three sets over and over.

What I figured out, slowly, is that most fine lingerie isn’t actually wearable. It’s beautiful. You put it on, you take a photo, and an hour later you’re aware of it digging into you somewhere. The straps don’t quite sit right, or the underwire is angled for someone whose body is slightly different from yours, or it fits perfectly during one week of the month and badly on the rest. So most of it sits in the drawer, beautiful and unworn.

I’d been buying for the photograph and the moment, not for the wearing. Which, fair. That’s mostly what fine lingerie is for. To be admired. But I’d been buying like I’d actually wear it, and I wasn’t.

Then I got my first Bordelle set.

The hardware adjusts. Sliding rings on the straps let you change the fit by inches in either direction. Every piece can feel custom tailored. The difference between forgetting you’re wearing something and counting the minutes until you can take it off. I find myself looking forward to wearing certain pieces from my small collection, something I rarely feel about the other brands I own.

After that, the buying slowed on its own. I’d expected to need discipline. Instead, having a few pieces that actually worked changed what I wanted from the rest. Will I actually wear this, or just admire it? The question was easier to answer once I knew what wearable felt like.

I think about the gap between form and function when it comes to women’s fashion a lot now. For the longest time, I thought they couldn’t be enmeshed. The beautiful, uncomfortable pieces are for special occasions; the simple, comfortable pieces are for daily life. Most fine lingerie operates inside that split. Beautiful for the photo, then back in the drawer.

What I’ve been finding is that the things I keep wearing are the ones that don’t accept the split. Bordelle is one. There are a few others: a particular pair of heels, a silk dress that feels like second skin, a necklace I never take off. The pattern is that they’re all things where someone thought carefully about the person wearing it as much as the object itself.

I’ve slowed down to curate a collection more like that. Less of the things that are just for the photo. More of the things that I’ll still be wearing in 10 years.

I share more on my Telegram channel, including photos of the pieces that prompted this.
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