I'm wearing them. That last pair of underwear in the drawer. And they're making me angry. The ones we keep even though we know they are uncomfortable or stained or ripped or have no elastic in one leg. I know you have that last pair too. Well, I'm wearing mine today and it's affecting my mood. I have a lovely collection of lingerie, none of it was available this morning. I'm not sure why I'm writing publicly about my undergarments. I was going to post about something else today but after I had to get out of my chair 3 times to readjust my intimates I became fixated on panties. There you have it folks! My unmentionables are no longer a secret.
And while I'm on the subject, what the hell is Victoria's secret anyway? I'll tell you what I think it is...I think she too is a 30-something mother whose underwear needs to be a high leg brief to cover up the sagging skin and stretch marks, whose panties had to be engineered to show no lines because her backside is regularly hanging out the car door while she endlessly buckles and unbuckles car seats and whose bra required bio-technology to form her empty, shapeless post-breast feeding boobs into something that from the exterior resembled femininity! That's OK Sweetie! Your secret is safe with me.
I could just stop what I'm doing and go change them right now. It might improve my mood and allow me to focus, but it might also go something like this...
I step away from the computer and run upstairs to my dresser. Drop my pants and with much relief remove the offending skivvies and open the drawer only to be reminded of the reason I put these offending unders on in the first place...no other clean ones in the drawer. So I grab my pants and make a dash back downstairs to the laundry room only to be greeted by the UPS guy at the the window next to the front door who shields his eyes and leaves the package on the step. I continue towards the basket of clean laundry that I know is awaiting me and dash past the computer to see the baby has pressed the space bar for so long my post has become 9 pages of empty space. I pluck her mini screeching self off the chair as the 5 year old comes around the corner and informs me that it is "not appropriate for a grown-up lady to have no pants on in the living room." The 3 year old sees that I have begun to undress and takes that as permission to disrobe (she'd rather be naked than dressed, always) and promptly strips to her undies. Throwing my hands up in disgust that a simple attempt to relieve myself of discomfort has resulted in a crying baby, a naked toddler, a holier-than-thou 5 year old, and an embarrassed UPS man, I realize that I should just put my painful panties back on, so I run upstairs, past the front door and wave to the neighbor boy who is now pressing his face against the window looking for a playmate (and now at my naked cheeks), grab the instrument of torture from the floor, put them back on, pull my pants on and begin to dig out the wedgie that has been formed almost immediately.
But I didn't do that because I've been down that road before. Better just to suffer in silence and humiliate myself by posting about underwear on what was (previous to this moment) a perfectly respectable blog.
The moral of this story:
If painful undies you possess,
then take your time before you dress.
Throw out the ones that dig and ride,
The ones with holes be cast aside.
Be it boy short, thong or brief,
Buy some that will give relief.
And noticing that last pair, say,
"Tomorrow will be laundry day!"