Today I want to share another one of my early posts.
One that I feel or hope, will resonate with a lot of you.
I say hope because I truly cannot endure the thought that I’m alone in the quest to find the perfect pair of underpants.
That said, I give you:
Have you seen these underpants?
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 a 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 lets not forget 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, without frills, but don’t look like a parachute.
They’re as elusive as the holy grail, but that doesn’t prevent me from trying to find them.
Time and time again, I relinquish my money and gently carry the bag home that holds the pair that might be “The One.”
The minute I walk through the door, I carefully open the bag to unveil my latest discovery.
I then quickly peel off all my clothes and put them on.
At first, the results seem promising.
The color is perfect.
The material is baby soft and my crotch appears to breathe without the help of a medical device.
However, the minute I squat, I know something is wrong.
As I glance 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 the heck has it gone?
One turn in the mirror provides the answer.
My belly has literally gobbled it up.
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 where the useless underpants were purchased.
I notice how the list now holds 535 entries; entries which trigger awful, but funny memories.
Entry #17-Animal print lycra-Gave me welts that almost required medical attention.
Entry #103- Hot pink lace-Literally tore the second they went past my knees.
Entry #165-Red cotton thong-Gave me a wedgie so painful, they forced me to tug at them in public, only to realize a minute later that the handsome stranger standing behind me at the supermarket, had witnessed the entire process.
Entry #178-Neon green mesh-Nearly cut off the blood flow to my femoral artery.
Yes, the right pair of underpants is as mythical as a unicorn and yet, I push on.
Sword drawn, teeth barred, and determination in my stance.
I surge forward.
Because ladies, lets face it.
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.