Taboo

Those lacy panties look great- displayed on the dresser that is.  The matching bra in the lace that does not scratch looks good too but it makes strange patterns under teeshirts. So the set gets stowed away for a special occasion.

The go-to underwear is the cotton with a little spandex in it.  It fits through multiple washings, and leaves little VPL due to the way they can finish the edges now.  Women harass men about their underwear- yes; it is part of a bigger taboo subject.  Most married women even BUY their husbands underwear, noticing when it looks worn and getting the new stuff for them.  Men usually don’t notice- as long as it fits, and looks like the old underwear they really don’t care.  It’s a purely functional thing.

The secret is that women are very much the same way. I didn’t give a lot of thought to my underwear until a good friend in college pointed out that I had alternatives to what I wore.  Still, over the years function trumped appearance but for the few sets of “special” underwear that only came out on limited occasions.  As I thumb through my current drawer, I wonder about when I make the choice to pitch a handful of raggedy, worn, stained (yes, you know what I mean), and out of shape underwear and replace them.  They don’t really cost that much, so waiting until the drawer throws itself open in protest seems extreme.  They come in packages or if you want to go upscale, on little hangers in department stores.  Or, as I found out recently, in bins when department stores ship them off to second tier resellers.  I picked through for my size and bought several pairs (why do they call them pairs anyway?  You don’t buy matching sets of panties.  They are underpants.  Again with the plural- pants.  They should be called underpant).  Costing under a buck a pair for some nicely made cotton/spandex, I was pleased (while they are all new and never tried on, going through a bin still feels a little ghetto).

It occurs to me this experience has changed how I feel about throwing any out now.  The tangibility of buying single pairs for under a buck apiece makes me realize there is no reason to hang on to the crummy old ones.  All these years and I waited to buy a new package, because- what?  I didn’t think I needed six new pairs at once?  I don’t know.  Because I was waiting for a sale?

This momentary revelation about a product we usually do not discuss, not really, seems a bit odd.  The Vicky’s Secret thing is for college girls and spank bank material for college boys.  The rest of us of either gender just get some at the local Wal-Tar-K and wear them with little thought (but avert our eyes if someone else is replenishing their stock at the same time).  The historical evolution of the habit is an interesting topic, but likely to garner red faces at a dinner party.  Going without them has consequences, no matter how much “going commando” sounds like a brave thing to do.  And honestly, in spite of the viral distribution of the Brit-Linds-Poptart-of-the-moment photos getting out of limos and flashing their naughty bits, who really goes without?

Write an ode to the ignored virtues of the cotton panty?  Perhaps.  Or maybe I’ll just replace them more often, and enjoy the fit and feel of a new pair.  Advertisers would do well to have a commercial that just encourages us to do this, without all the dancing around the topic or trying to make it sexy.   Bras have complexity, the fit is difficult to describe.  Panties?  When did Oprah ever have entire episodes about them with fitters to show us how they ought to cling?  I won’t go into the male jockey-brief-boxer scene.  While also taboo and often ignored, these essential items inspire humor more than anything else.

So thank you to whom ever got with the program and designed my current crop.  I can’t go a day without them and hopefully won’t be met with embarrassed scorn if husband happens to see mine in the wash.  I see London, I see France, but who cares if you see my underpants!  Panties!  Tighty whities!  Unmentionables!  Lingerie!  Jock strap!  G string!  Bloomers!  Boxers!  (I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t, and I really, really don’t want to see yours either).   Comfort to the way of the wearer, my friend.  Comfort and privacy to you.

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