That's the awful thing about dating. Tight underwear. We would

In the candlelit tongue of honest mirth, a sage of comedy confesses a truth we all feel in our ribs: “That’s the awful thing about dating. Tight underwear. We would all like to be in a big bra and pants, and when you are in a secure relationship you can do that.” Hear the laughter; inside it, a low drum of wisdom. She speaks of garments, but names a condition of the soul: the early rites of display, the cinching and smoothing of one’s rough edges, the small breath held lest the illusion slip. It is not merely corsetry; it is the costume of anxiety—how we compress ourselves to seem worthy of welcome.

The ancients would have understood this costume as a kind of armor. On the first march to meet another heart, we strap on our brightest plates: witty answers, polished shoes, the carefully arranged smile. Tight underwear stands for every self-pinching protocol we keep—concealing appetites, throttling quirks, rehearsing stories. We call it confidence; often it is fear in silk. The body longs to exhale; the soul longs to sprawl on the couch of recognition. But while we are proving, we are rarely resting.

What, then, is the promise of the big bra and pants? It is not slovenliness; it is sanctuary. It is the relief that arrives when affection says, “Stay as you are and breathe all the way down.” A secure relationship is the house where the body is not a performance and the heart is not a brand. There, comfort is not opposed to beauty; comfort becomes beauty—because nothing is lovelier than a person unafraid to take up their true shape. In this freedom, laughter grows low and easy, meals stretch long, and silence no longer accuses.

Consider a small parable from everyday life. A woman—call her Hana—spent her first months with a new partner trussed in the manners of perfection: never a crumb on the plate, never a hair out of place. One winter evening the heater failed; sweaters and steam rose from mugs, and she confessed between shivers, “I want to be the kind of person who can wear flannel and still be loved.” He went to the dresser, brought her the softest pair of socks, and said, “Start now.” Later she would call that moment the hinge on which the door of trust swung open: the passage from tight underwear to the liberty of the big bra and pants—from vigilance to belonging.

History keeps a brighter lamp for this lesson. When Abigail and John Adams wrote their long letters across war and ocean, they were not performing elegance for the town; they were expanding a room for each other’s real minds—fretful, ardent, unvarnished. Their words did not cinch; they unfolded. Each letter was a loose garment tailored to truth. There is the pattern of a secure relationship: a space where the person you are in private and the person you are in love become the same person.

Dawn French’s jest also warns against a counterfeit ease. If we race toward “comfort” without first building trust, we slide into carelessness: disregarding courtesy, abandoning the shared artistry of romance. The wisdom is balance: in the first season, a little polish is hospitality to the other; in the long season, authenticity is hospitality to both. To cling forever to tight underwear is to worship impression and starve intimacy. To leap too quickly into the big bra and pants without kindness is to mistake indulgence for love. The goal is a generous middle: free, but attentive.

So let the teaching be carved for the young and the weathered alike. Love worthy of the name invites the whole person—not just the staged silhouette. The journey of dating should lead from curated mask to companioned ease, from holding one’s breath to sharing one’s breath. When you find the place where your laugh does not require permission and your appetite is not a negotiation, honor it; stitch it with gratitude; guard it against the thin pride that would send you back into the cage of performance.

Practices for the road: (1) Before a first meeting, decide one quirk you will not hide; let the body of truth show at the hem. (2) After each date, note one thing you relaxed and whether the bond grew warmer—measure progress by breath, not by trophies. (3) In a growing bond, trade tokens of ease—cozy meals at home, no-makeup walks, shared pajamas of the spirit—signals that say, “You are safe here.” (4) Keep courtesy alive: comfort and care must rise together. (5) If you never find yourself slipping into the big bra and pants—metaphor or literal—ask whether the relationship feeds your courage or your pretense. Choose the one that lets you exhale. For love is not the art of cinching; it is the science of staying—loyal, laughing, and utterly at home.