But if I can stand in front of several high school crushes in only my underthings when changing costumes (I was in theatre, people), I can certainly talk about them.
If reading this post is going to get your panties in a wad (I’m sorry, did you miss the part about me being a dork and loving to make puns?) then I’ll see you back here tomorrow with a less-revealing topic.
I’m a bit
anal… oh, maybe that’s not the best choice of words in a post about underwear… OCD about categorizing things (though you’d never know it by looking at the current state of my house). My underwear is no exception. The drawer that houses my unmentionables is divided into three sections, corresponding to my three categories of undies:
enter if you dare
- comfy, cotton panties;
- comfy-but-won’t-let-the-girl-downstairs-breathe, line-free panties and thongs; and
- why-did-I-buy-these, I’m-ever-going-to-wear-these, I’m-a-married-woman panties.
Needless to say, only 1 of the 3 categories makes regular appearances in the laundry.
I remember being obsessed as a teen with making sure I had pretty, matching bras and panties on at all times because you never knew when your
boyfriend was going to move to third base girlfriends might see you in the locker room. Now? I’m lucky to put on a bra that’s not stretched out and panties that don’t have holes in them (I’m pretty sure the “thou shalt not divorce thy wife for wearing ugly undies” clause is right next to the “thou shalt not divorce thy wife for not shaving her legs all winter” clause in the marriage contract Hubby signed). No, my Victoria’s Secret money goes to practical things these days, like sweaters that will keep me warm enough to prevent a $500 heating bill (and lip gloss, lots and lots of lip gloss). Just another sign of getting old, I guess.