I’ll bet you never guessed that my meme from Wednesday was the precursor of another post! If you’re overly sensitive to discussions about underwear, briefs, drawers, skivvies, small clothes, loincloths, g-strings, or whatever you call your unmentionables, you’ll probably want to skip this post. I am more than mentioning undergarments in this embarrassing essay on intimate articles of clothing.

It’s not much fun to shop for underwear these days. I don’t really like to shop at all, so when I find a style of clothing I like, I am guilty of buying several of the same thing but in an assortment of colors for variety’s sake. The only time I really have a problem with this strategy is when it involves underwear. Buying two six-packs is convenient, but have you ever noticed that the elastic in all twelve pairs seems to give up the ghost in the same load of laundry? This basically leaves you underwear-less because who wants to walk around with underwear bunched around your thighs? I have to be practical at my age, though. Commando only works if there is a guarantee that I won’t laugh, sneeze, or cough with a full bladder. Don’t ask me how I know this. (Okay. You’re right! That was too much information. Can you imagine my horror when, as a young adult, my grandmother told me that it was good to air things out down there every once and awhile?)

After the elastic failed in my last stockpile of dainties, I had no choice but to suffer through an intimate apparel shopping expedition. Once upon a time, I wasn’t opposed to an intimate apparel exhibition, but those days are long gone. (Remember the home lingerie parties? Did you ever “model” the nighties for your friends?) I walked through the lingerie department hoping to get inspired but the truth is that I no longer care for anything but comfortable. I’ve moved from lacy hot to cotton comfy, from skimpy silk to just short of the full coverage protection of Depends. There just doesn’t seem to be any reason to wear undies that I have to pull out of my crack all day. Who can be subtle about fishing a wedgie out of a crack the length of the Continental Divide and the depth of the Grand Canyon? I was spending too much time looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching every time I tried to get a more comfortable adjustment. And don’t forget that there are hidden cameras everywhere now. Do you really want to be filmed stealthily trying to do a wedgie yanking maneuver? The stress is too much for me. Why suffer?

With the demise of uncomfortable undergarments in my life, I’ve noticed that I’ve undergone a personality change. I’m no longer as irritable. There has to be some connection between that and the butt-traveling, crack-seeking underwear of days passed. I think if research was conducted, it would prove that the real reason why there are so many aggressive drivers, male and female, is because of a thong. The drivers just can’t wait to get to their destination to dig it out. Teen-aged girls were bitchy enough before their ignorant parents started letting them wear thong underwear. Now they are unmanageable! Thongs for minors should be outlawed along with alcohol and cigarettes. It would go a long way toward promoting peace, maybe not on Earth, but at least in high schools.

As I pushed my shopping cart by a huge display of underwear, I grabbed a huge package of huge Hanes Her Way bloomers and threw them into the buggy. If I wasn’t going to do sexy, lace-trimmed, silk and satin, I might as well go for the cotton comfort of granny panties. Later that night, when I tried them on, I thought that they complimented my hairy legs well. And if that isn’t scary enough, I’m afraid that this is becoming my new normal, one that I’m never going to step beyond!