Before I get into the nitty-gritty of sewing underwear, I thought it might be fun to have a quick digression into undergarment history, as what we wear now has little in common with what people historically wore.
The short story is that for most of history, women and men did not wear underwear in the modern sense of a stretchy fitted garment around the pelvis (although
medieval men wore braies, which are a woven linen undergarment with some resemblance to modern undies).
The shift (or long shirt for men) formed the basis of most undergarments from the most ancient times, and the lack of indoor plumbing necessitated easy access. Women had to handle their monthly cycles and other things without modern sanitary supplies, using some combination of rags and belts under the clothes (giving rise to the theory that men's fluids are culturally neutral and women's are somehow a Very Bad Thing). For the purposes of our discussion, I'm going to stick to women's undergarments.
(Some
historians have speculated that women just bled into their clothing, but I find that hard to believe, given the expense of clothing and the fact that it had to last a long time, sometimes for multiple people. It is also true that women spent much more of their reproductive years pregnant or nursing, so not having regular cycles, then an earlier onset of menopause--some historians think around 40. Today it is more like 50, although perimenopause usually starts in the 40s. That said, cycles still had to be managed at least some of the time, and
it seems against all logic that they wouldn't have had some kind of absorbent material under their clothing.
It's probably part and parcel with the misconception that everyone prior to the modern era smelled terrible and didn't clean themselves regularly. It is true that body odor would have been more present in earlier societies, but
any person who doesn't want to keep themselves clean by the standards of the day is ill.
People didn't shower or bathe the way we do, with our modern indoor plumbing, but
they kept themselves clean, and
tried to keep smells away).
Linen was the first thread used for textile making, wool came later, after sheep were domesticated. (There is a great history of the development of textiles and the domestic labor related to it in Elizabeth Wayland Barber's seminal book,
Women's Work. I highly recommend it). Because textiles were expensive, relative to household income, garments were constructed to waste as little of the fabric as possible, which meant cutting things in more or less geometric shapes, and maximizing all the space. (Like today,
a wardrobe was still suited to the owner's budget; some people had more, some people had less, and most outer clothing was usually made by professional seamstresses. It was the undergarments like shifts that were often made at home). Stockings and hose were cut on the bias from wool or broadcloth and seamed, then held in place with garters tied at the knees.
In the case of hose, they were basically two tubes of fabric tied onto the waist with ties, the crutch* left open and the shirt tucked in, or some kind of braies underneath, although from the Tudor period onward, hose were joined much like modern tights. Women's stockings remained separate and gartered until the mid-20th century, with the invention of nylon.
But getting back to the shift, that crucial foundation garment, the diagram below is for an 18th century shift, the main idea doesn't change that much from antiquity.
Shifts were worn next to the skin because linen could be easily laundered and was tough enough to withstand regular beating on the rocks in a moving stream. They were changed frequently, much as we change our underwear today. The fabric provided a layer of protection for outer garments, which usually were made of fibers that were more difficult to launder, such as silk, wool, or leather.
Starting in the Elizabethan period, women commonly wore a form of stays to create a specific silhouette and support the bust and back for the heavy labor required for daily living, and the shift always went under the stays, since jumps, stays, or later, corsets would wear out quickly if they were constantly against the skin and couldn't be laundered.
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| Guilty! My top costuming annoyance is putting a woman in stays (or a corset) with no shift underneath. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Stahp. Props to Outlander for consistently getting this one right. TURN: I'm giving you the side eye. I think even Mary: Queen of Scots got this one wrong in a few places, and I loved that film. |
(Interestingly, jumps, stays, and later corsets, were commonly made by men as a professional occupation, as opposed to the women's work of spinning and sewing for the household. The main reason is that support garments are boned and made from several layers of stiff material like heavy canvas, usually bound with thin leather, all stitched by hand. The hand strength required to perform the work day in and day out was more suited to men. Having made a pair of stays--see below--I can easily see why).
Shifts were often included as part of a dowry; a wealthy woman in the late 18th century went into her marriage with 60 shifts to her name, and she remarked (without irony) that she would probably never need another.
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| You can see my garters tied under the knee. Garters tied above the knee are usually incorrect, as they would not hold a stocking there, having no natural place to rest, since it is the widest part of the leg. Garters under the knee make more sense. |
The earliest textile garment we have is the
Tarkhan dress from Egypt; it is easily recognizable as an early ancestor of the shift. (Hence forward, I'll use the term shift to refer to the white linen undergarment worn by women and men, with some variation on sleeve style and hem length).
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| Tarkhan Dress (it would have originally reached the knees) | | |
Starting in the 19th century, women's undergarments became a bit more, well, more. Instead of a simple shift and gartered stockings under layers of petticoat skirts (which could be whipped out of the way easily), split drawers (sometimes called panteloons or bloomers) became fashionable, but still included a shift on top (by this point it is more commonly called a chemise). Confusingly, in the late 18th and early 19th century, men wore an outer garment called panteloons, that were a particular type of knee breeches. Corsets become longer and more restrictive (and less conducive to heavy labor, rather than being an awesome back support), as the female ideal shifted from a robust laboring woman to assist with all the tasks of the home and field, to a delicate, thin, fainting thing, barely able to stay upright.
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By the Edwardian period,
women's underpinnings had become truly fiendish things called
combinations, and I struggle to understand how bathroom use worked, as indoor plumbing was far from common, and even with indoor plumbing, you'd still be in for a job every time you had to go. Between the long-line corset, garters, and drawers without a center split, I'm really at a loss--perhaps there was a buttoned crutch?
For a fun read, The Dreamstress did a project called the
1916 Project, where she wore clothing she made based on extant clothing from the 1910s for a fortnight and did living history research at home.
Things improved somewhat after WW1, when the looser silhouettes of the 1920s came into fashion. Combinations and bloomers were still around, but were
considerably looser and shorter (and came to be called cami-knickers), closed with a button or snap at the crutch, and no longer included a longline corset.
By the end of the 1920s, women wore loose woven shorts (see below) and an almost modern-looking bra, but corsets didn't disappear until the 1940s, only to reappear as panty girdles and waist cinchers to achieve Dior's New Look. Menses were handled with belts and reusable pads that were attached to the belt with pins or clips.
Different types of bust shapers followed in the 1930s and 1940s, in the quest for the fashionable silhouette, but the basic two-piece foundation garment was set.
The bottoms became shorter over time, and sometimes included shapewear like the panty-girdles of the late 1940s and 1950s. By the 1960s, underwear begins to be made of stretchy knitted fabrics closely fitted to the body like nylon or later, jersey, as fine-knit textiles became widely available and popular.
Which brings me to the present, and the underwear dilemma that faces women: how to manage all the bodily functions and not be annoyed by the garment? In the West, a large percentage of us have easy access to indoor plumbing and modern sanitary products, although it is true that in the developing world, these are largely unavailable and menstruation still considered shameful and unclean. But, most menstruation products commercially available contain some kind of plastic barrier, which is hard on the environment, and doesn't breathe. It does no good to wear natural fibers if you need to put a piece of plastic in there too.
Of course, there are also the crunchy granola options: reusable cloth pads, diva cups, and the newer trend of period underwear (which also contain a layer of plastic in the form of PUL). Reusable cloth pads are nice, but are mostly a hefty investment if you don't want to make them yourself. (Although, interestingly,
amazon has gotten in on that game and now offers sets for under $20, most of which contain charcoal bamboo, about which more in a moment).
There is also the not-insignificant factor that as the pelvic floor ages, the muscles that support the bladder don't do their job. Having babies makes that particular issue worse. There is the terror of the postpartum sneeze or running up a flight of stairs. Or you have a completely dysfunctional pelvic floor that stays tense all the time and the muscles don't do their job because they rarely relax (ask me how I know).
(Here comes the part where I overshare...brace yourself).
I have a few requirements for underwear that have never been met by commercially-made versions. These are: 1) actual high waist; 2) full bum coverage 3) elastic that doesn't pinch my legs or waist; 4) natural fibers throughout, 5) a gusset that comes up high enough in the front to actually provide full coverage. Because I am a grown-ass woman, not a little girl. For those unfamiliar with underwear construction, the gusset is the bit that is usually two layers of fabric and sits in the center of your crutch. It is seamed at the back to attach it to the underwear. (It looks like
commercial underwear had higher gussets in the 1970s!!
There is no surer way to feeling cross with your day than ill-fitting undergarments. I include bras in that metric, but that is a whole other post. The weather this summer stressed me beyond breaking, being both extremely humid and extremely hot, for much longer than we usually have high heat and humidity (it started in earnest Memorial Day weekend and hasn't let up since).
I'd bought
Jennifer Lauren Handmade's Trixie briefs pattern when it came out, but was daunted by the idea of making underwear. Me and foldover elastic have not historically gotten along. But after realizing that about 10% of my daily irritation was coming from under my clothes, I decided to take the plunge. I cut up a Laguna jersey dress that was in my fabric bin for the scraps anyway, and used the fabric to make a trial pair in a fit of rage-sewing; I don't recommend it.
I didn't have enough matching foldover elastic on hand, so I used what I had, figuring the whole experiment was going to be a bust anyway. (See rage-sewing above). I extended the gusset and tripled the fabric layer. When I finished, I laughed and laughed and laughed, because they were GIGANTIC. I mean, truly enormous looking. There is no way these are going to fit, I thought.
But wait! I wore them for a day, and was converted. They seemed too good to be true. Basically, not reminding me of its existence, ever. My day went 5% better as a result. (Only 5% because I was still working on the bra issue). I thrifted some shirts with the right fiber content and bought two yards of Laguna to make additional pairs. The thrifting was mostly done in the name of make do and mend, and use
what is already available rather than buying new. It sort of worked. (I mostly used the shirts to make the paneled version, which uses less fabric per piece, so some of my paneled pairs are...interesting, but they get the job done).
The first few pairs had some errors--mostly in stitch length. It really does make a difference what width your zig-zag is on the elastic edges. The golden number for me was 4x4 on the elastics, and 1.5 x 1.5 on the seam allowances. But the application of elastic is not as bad as I expected, so I'll take that. You just have to remember to start on the inside of the fabric so you end up top stitching on the outside for the last run of stitching. Makes for a nice neat edge.
I decided to fiddle with the gusset some more, as I thought there had to be something better than three layers of fabric, or worse, a layer of PUL, and discovered a magical textile called charcoal fleece. It isn't sold in the U.S. but I found
a Canadian supplier, and received my yard very quickly, under the circumstances. From then on, I cut all my gussets from that. It is awesome.
Because the fleece is significantly thicker than the main fabric, I had to puzzle through how to attach the gusset neatly, because following the pattern instructions resulted in a too-bulky seam at the back, or a double seam right at the back, but I think I've cracked it now.
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| Making the most out of scraps--it sort of reminds me of a circus tent, but whatever. |
I sew the initial seam to attach the front to the back at the gusset, according to the pattern directions, then turn the seam allowance toward the front, and lay the fleece gusset on top, right at the seam edge, but not overlapping if possible. Then wide-zig-zag the edges down along the original seam line, and repeat at the front. I tried a few pairs with the gusset seam turned to the back and overlapped with the fleece, but it doesn't look quite as neat. It seems to hold up okay with wash and wear.
After that, I was on a mission to get a long laundry cycle's worth. And thus began the underwear odyssey, and a drawer full of well-fitting, non-crazy-making underwear. Yippie!
Now that I've blistered your eyes, it is worth saying that I think it is important to discuss these things and find solutions, because there is no reason to be held captive to whatever commercial interests dictate our bodies *should* be like. Friends don't let friends wear bad underwear.
There are a lot of competing messages about women's undergarments, from the way they are presented in the packaging, to the cut and fabrics used. There seems to be very little thought given to what women might actually want in these garments, and the lock-step grading system means that a lot of us have ill-fitting undergarments.
*Crutch is the older variant on the term, not a typo; I prefer it in writing to the more modern one.
