I'm so glad that I could bring everyone together in the bond of skivvies...
Why, you asked me. Why do you only wear granny panties? You may laugh, sitting there smugly in your cute little lace-bedecked polka dotted panties, asking jokingly if I was traumatized by a pair of underwear as a child.
Well I wasn't! Not as a child...as a newlywed.
I have never been interested in lingerie. Bras and underwear were utilitarian, kind of like backpacks and duct tape, there to gather it all into one place or keep it from flying around uncontrollably. But as a newlywed with a troubled addiction to Cosmopolitan I realized I was going to have to spice things up if I wanted to, uh, keep things spiced up.
After much deliberation and consultation with several teeny tiny sales waifs I purchased a pair of thong underwear. With my husband working nights and me working days I figured that I would wear the thong to work and when I was changing out of my work clothes and he was changing into his, it would be a nice surprise. I put it on the next morning, reassuring myself that it was the most comfortable thing in the world and why would teeny tiny sales waifs lie?
Breaking news: TEENY TINY SALES WAIFS LIE
There was no comfort. There was binding and chaffing and rubbing and stinging. At one point there was a bit of crying and a vague thought given to making up an illness that would require me to go home early. But as bad as the pain of the thong was, the thought of removing it and going commando in a knee-length skirt was even more so. I could just see a tornado blowing through and lifting my skirt over my head, exposing my now incredibly-raw rear end. Or worse yet, throwing them in my purse and getting randomly searched by security on my way out of the building and having to explain why I had a pair of thong underwear in my purse. So I waited it out...it was the longest day of my life.
At quittin' time, I ran as gingerly as possible to my car in an effort to quell the chaffing and rubbing and binding and stinging. The front porch steps were like an experiment in torture and sure enough my husband was in the bedroom getting ready for work as I walked in like a bow-legged bull rider, holding back tears. My husband just looked at me as I shucked out of the skirt and turned to face him, finally letting the tears fall, blubbering incoherently about Cosmo, spice and teeny tiny sales waifs. He was beginning to smile, which of course ticked me off even more.
"What? Don't you want to save our marriage?" I yelled at him.
"Yeah, but you've got those things on all whopperjawed. It looks king of painful."
Sure enough, I had put a leg through the waist, the waist through my legs and ended up wearing the thong less like lingerie and more like a straightj acket for my goodies. One week, one panty burning ceremony in the front yard and one bottle of Goldbond later, I devoted myself to granny panties and never looked back.
But last week, two of my friends performed a panty intervention. And while I was reluctant to plunge privates first into the panty pond, I slowly came around but still have some questions.
- Why do they call them "boy shorts"? They don't particularly look like something one would wear hunting, romping through the woods, or four-wheeling.
- What's with the "hipster"? They looked comfortable enough but every time I picked up a pair and saw the word hipster I had flashes of Kramer from Seinfeld and who wants to think about that guy every time they put on underwear?
- Why would anyone want their cheeks to hang out of their underwear? Is it just so that they can say the word "cheeky" more often? Because I like that word, too. Cheeky, cheeky... my underwear is "cheeky". Cheeky.
- Who thinks up underwear styles? I mean, is there some little girl out there dreaming about the day she graduates from design school with her Distinguished Diploma of Delicate Design trying to figure out new and exciting ways to incorporate latex and lace into the wardrobe of the woman of the future? I really want to know who to blame for the thong. Really.
So, to bring this to an end, pardon the pun, I have not had an anti-granny-panty epiphany, but I have picked up some not-so-utilitarian non-granny-panties and am desperately trying not to twitch and fidget when I wear them. Do I like them, you ask... Well, they're no six-year-old-no-elastic-thread-bare-granny-panties, but I could learn to dig it...especially if they continue to ride up like the new sheriff in town!
