A comment on one of my postings served as the inspiration for today’s blog entry. The credit goes to Tiger Lilly for pointing out how ill-fitting underpants can hold a good woman down.
You are right, my sister, they do indeed. I have lost count of how many times I’ve walked into a department store, full of hope, lowered expectations and a wad full of cash ready to fork over for the right pair of underpants.
Forget the Spanx and other contraptions that promise to give you that smooth, no-line, shapely look. We all know that no matter what, these just end up making us look like a badly encased sausage.
And don’t get me started on the pulled muscles, torn ligaments and strained backs that have resulted from trying to wrestle all of our human meat into them.
The underpants I’m talking about are delicate, non-constraining, made of soft organic cotton, have no frills but don’t look like a parachute.
Time after time I hold my breath, reliquish my money, and gently carry the bag that holds the pair that might just be “the one” home. Upon my arrival, I carefully open the little plastic sack and unveil my latest discovery.
Quickly, I peel off all my clothes and put them on.
At first, the result seems promising. The color is just right. The material is baby soft and my crotch appears to breathe without requiring assistance from a medical device. However, the minute I squat, I know something is wrong.
Upon glancing at myself in the full length mirror, which I have to say makes me a very brave woman, I notice the waistband of the underpants has disappeared. Where could it have gone, I wonder and low and behold, one turn in the mirror gives me the answer.
My belly has literally gobbled it up. The waistband has now taken up residence beneath one of the folds of skin located beneath my belly button.
Sadly, I remove the offensive garment, throw it in the ever-growing pile of rejects and pour myself a glass of wine.
In all my naked glory, I make a toast for what could have been but alas, was not. I hold my glass high and make another toast.The fight isn’t over, I shout. I’m still on the quest and I shall find you!
Half a bottle of wine later, I sit down at my desk and inscribe the brand, model, size, color and the store the useless underpants were purchased. I notice the list now holds 535 entries some of which bring back painful flashbacks.
I remember the time I bought the black nylon ones that gave me the welts that required medical attention. I remember the pink ones that literally tore the second they went past my knees.
I recall the red ones that gave me a wedgie that was so painful, they caused me to tug at them in public only to realize the handsome stranger standing behind me at the supermarket had witnessed the entire process.
And who’s to forget the neon green ones that cut off the blood flow to my femoral artery and bought me a trip to the emergency room for which I’m still paying medical deductibles for.
Yes, the right pair of underpants is as mythical as a unicorn and yet, I push on.
Sword drawn, teeth barred, determination in my stance, I surge forward. The right pair of underpants is out there and if located, we sisters know we shall worship at the altar of the woman who finds them.
So get ready ladies, because tonight we nibble salad in hell!