I awoke to a dire situation this morning: I was down to my last clean pair of underwear. The unsightly, ill-fitting, for-emergency-use-only, I’ll die-if-anyone-sees-me-in-these, elastic sprung, Pepto-Bismol-pink pair that bunches and binds.
My heart sank at the sight of them. It’s going to be a long day.
Ordinarily, I’m pretty good about doing laundry, a little compulsive about the folding and putting away, maybe, but pretty good about keeping up with it. I think a house full of clean clothes feels faintly luxurious, indulgent even. But time and Tide® got the better of me this week, I’m behind on housework, too.
These solitary wallflowers, my voluminous, pastel-colored, grandma-type bloomers, they feel like penance, a hair cloth shirt. And they’re very nearly as comfortable. Women’s underwear comes in too many styles, in my unsolicited opinion — everything from boy cut to thong to French bikini to edible.
Me? I like the hipsters, they’re not too teeny weeny and not too oversize-wide-load proportioned. They’re just right, like baby bear’s bed in Goldilocks.
So how’d I wind up with these big girls? By not reading the package they came in, that’s how. The one that was clearly labeled ’Briefs’. Okay, let me stop right there and say that’s a lie; there’s nothing brief about these pink nightmares. I could set up camp in those things, they’re big as a tent. A three-ringer, Barnum & Bailey circus-sized.
The elastic waistband reaches to my armpits and the leg bands give chase, providing a snug, all-day wedgie. One that leaves me walking funny. Not funny ha-ha, funny peculiar. They need a belt — or a cinch or an anchor — and about three fewer yards of material. If Jockey For Her continues with such profligacy, we’re headed straight for a cotton shortage — which is the slippery slope to scratchy, coarse, uncomfortable, billowing underpants.
None of us wants that, do we? No, of course, we don’t. I walk funny enough without the perpetual wedgies.