I am not, never have been, and likely never will be an Underwear person. I dislike wearing, owning, washing, and buying them. I hate how much they cost, I abhor their function, and I think the stupid little patterns on them are, well, stupid. Given my own choice I would–and frequently do–practice the gentle art of Free-balling.
Bra and panty sets are equally offensive to me. Maybe I’m insane here, but if any man is less likely to hump me because my bra and panties don’t match, they don’t deserve to see my sweet, sweet box. To me (who is actually colorblind, remember) it’s just another thing to coordinate.
My best friend Ashley worked in lingerie for many years, and spent the majority of those years attempting to convert me to the matching underwear/bra side of life. Much as I can kinda see the point, I usually went along for the ride and to make her feel accomplished (plus, I felt guilty that my son had peed on her). I’d pop by to see her, pick out some perfectly functional drawers (not panties. NEVER panties. What a sick word!) and leave feeling relieved that I didn’t have to buy more undies for a couple of months.
When she quit working there, I was left in a bind. Gone was my bra/undies hookup. Gone were the kick ass boxer-like drawers, having gone back to the great Maker from which they came.
Left to my own devices, I discovered that Victoria’s Secret runs a kick ass sale a couple times a year. The Underwear Gods were smiling down upon me once again! Many more years passed in this manner, stocking up quarterly on undies, never thrilled, always satisfied.
In January, my time for fresh and stain free drawers lured me back to Victoria’s Secret. Hopelessly, I trudged forth into the store and in the same manner in which I always have, grabbed about 50 pairs and ran back out having dropped a small fortune.
In March, once the boxes were unpacked, I rediscovered my newest cache of drawers. Thrilled by the fact the I had thought ahead, I greedily pulled a fresh pair on. And on. And on again, By the time the pair was completely unrolled, my boobs were resting just slightly above the edge of the underwear.
Confused, I double-checked the tag for both the size (Same) and the Maternity Moniker (none). I checked myself out in my full-length mirror. Yep. I looked like a bandanna printed Erkl.
I tore through the remainder of the bag. Yes, indeedy. I had certainly bought 500 pairs of grandma panties, in all whimsical colors and patterns. AND THEN REMOVED TAGS AND WASHED THEM. No, siree, Vicky’s won’t take THOSE back.
Thankfully by a stroke of luck for my sex-life, Dave happened to be out for the day and I was alone, otherwise I’d have pranced around the house with Hawaiian print undies up to my nipples for him to see (ala buying the poofy shit for under my wedding dress. You bet your ass Dave had to watch me prance around David’s Bridal looking like an extra for Little WhoreHouse on the Prairie. Then he gave me my Thorazine and wept quietly into his hands).
As luck would have it, I was stuck at home alone, breasts being cut into by underwear band laughing softly and wondering how the shit I didn’t realize that each pair that I bought had about 187 extra yards of fabric. Victoria’s Secret apparently makes a version of The Granny Panty. Who the fuck knew?
Also, I really need to get the fuck over the cost and buy some damn underwear that’s not on sale.
As a post script, I would like to add that my shear stubbornness has not allowed me to get rid of these, so I am wearing them as I write this. Nipples chafing and all.
Daver and I happened to be sitting out on our back porch one night, mildly discussing our past relationships. Mainly, it was a back and forth game of virtual tennis, but instead of balls (hehe. BALLS!!) we hurled insults. Basically, it was like playing ‘War’ but without the cards:
‘Dude, you dated Sabrina. Why won’t she update her blog? Email her and have her update her blog.’
‘No. Besides you dated Nat.’
‘Right, but Nat didn’t have an entire section of his website devoted to sappy poemes about me. Didja hear the fancy way I said poemes?’
‘But it’s Nat.’
‘Dude, I so win’
‘No, you don’t. Nat trumps Sabrina.’
During this discussion, Dave made mention of sappy love poetry he’d written, and I was forced to reveal that although I had ‘œwhored around’ I had never had a crappy emo poeme written for me.
The Daver saw his opportunity to shine, and went a-running with it. So now, at the tender age if 25 I am in possession of my first ever crappy, sappy and lame emo poeme, reprinted here just as the author had intended it.
Becky’s Crappy Sappy Emo Poeme (I named this bad boy; Dave would probably have named it something emo-like and crappy like ‘Velvet Turbulence’).
‘Burning like tear-trails,
with a glance, your flame
flares searingly through
then freezing my icy heart.’
So I retorted with this beauty:
It Tastes Like Battery Acid, You Bastard!
‘you sweet and sensuous velvet sparkly
caresses my mouth,
i need you,
like i need air,
i listen not to others,
who complain about your taste.
as they have no more taste-buds.
you taste like angels,
and all that is good with the world.
like the guy at the 7-11 who provides you to me.
As I handed my prized poeme off to The Daver for inspection, expectantly waiting for the ‘Wow! You’re an amazing poet!’ compliments to start flying my way, I was sorely disappointed. For all of my .56 seconds of effort (most of those .01 seconds were spent trying to figure out how to spell angel and caress) I got a measly:
‘Becky, this poem isn’t about me. It’s about Diet Coke.’
Touche, The Daver, touche.