Unmentionables

Most women like frilly underwear. We’re hard-wired that way.

Today’s girl starts out in stylish diapers emblazoned with feminine cartoon images. The accomplishment of potty training is rewarded by a whole new level of chic, as floral patterns and ruffles become available. I challenge you to offer an image sweeter, or more feminine, than a peek of ruffled panties under a pint-sized, smocked dress. And, at that age, we are generally proud of our hard-earned undergarments. We like looking at them, and we want you to notice, too.

The real fascination with femininity doesn’t start, in earnest, until the money handed the clerk behind the Victoria’s Secret counter is hard-earned, and your own. Having a parent accompany you to Victoria’s Secret would be something akin to being fifteen and having to ask your Dad for a ride to the drug-store and hearing him ask,“Why? What do you need?”. This situation is avoided whenever possible.

When I was a teen, “Days of the Week” underwear was all the rage. On first glance, this seemed like a very practical approach to underwear. Should you not remember whether or not you had changed, you could always consult a calendar for reassurance. Due to my mother’s insistence on waiting until she had a “full load” to launder however, this never worked for me.

All my friends preferred bikini-style, and I really tried to follow suit. But, after years of feeling the constancy of a cotton-elastic waistband riding upon my naval, I struggled with the feeling that I was losing my coverage. Giving up, I rode the “Granny Panties”, and there was no shame in this. Many girls made this choice. I know, because my reluctance to shuck my clothing in the showers after PE forced me to find someplace to put my eyes, as everyone around me stripped to the skin. Many pairs of “Granny Panties” hit the red tile floor as their wearers danced and giggled their way towards raining shower heads. “Days of the Week” emblazoned across the backside of “Granny Panties” was just wrong. I settled for a nice honey-comb weave.

They make underwear for pregnant women, though I’ve never fully understood why. Bikini underwear don’t infringe upon the protuberance, and “Granny Panties” can be worn bikini-style, until such time as the baby is born and mother has recovered sufficiently to drive to the mall to buy the larger size she will now require.

Though surely always present, panty-lines suddenly became a big issue in the eighties, and no-show underwear became all the rage. Whisper thin, they were seamless, and constructed of a sheer, elastic, nylon that morphed into a hopelessly pilled, knotted mess after just a few washings. Fortunately, I only bought and very quickly tossed, two pair.

As a more direct approach to the problem of panty-lines, thongs burst upon the scene in the 90’s. I remember the first time I saw a woman on the beach wearing a thong bikini, and thinking, “Why bother?”, followed closely by, “She really shouldn’t be wearing that.” Truthfully, very few women have the physique required to pull this look off, without reminding everyone behind her of what it would look like if you tied two, rather misshapen, beach-balls together and drug them through wet sand. Unfortunately, it is usually those who should avoid this fashion faux pas who seem most likely to parade past.

Being realistic about my body, I’ve never been tempted to string on a thong bikini. I did, however, attempt to solve my previously unsolved panty-line problem by wearing thong underwear, or as I refer to it, “heiney floss”. The experiment was short-lived as I soon discovered that they do, indeed, feel much as one might imagine they would feel given the unnatural nature of their construction. While standing, my panty-line problem was solved. Unfortunately, I spend very few days simply standing. Most days I feel the need to walk or, heaven forbid, sit. It is difficult for me to say which experience is more uncomfortable when thonged, sitting or rising from a sit. Either exercise may result in an elastic wrenching, requiring an increasingly painful walk to a private setting in order to make the necessary corrections. Despite the discomfort, I kept several pair of thong underwear after realizing that their value sprung not from the wearing of them, but rather in sharing the fact with someone whose imagination, alone, allowed him full view.

I love browsing the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. As I retrieve it from my mailbox, I always wonder if the postman enjoyed it, before sliding it into the box. For years, I’ve ordered the same type of panties. They are cotton, as good health dictates, and usually patterned or solidly, softly, pastel. Recently, as I leafed through the pages, I noticed an intriguing new style I’d yet to try.

It seems I’m not alone in my dissatisfaction with previous efforts to solve the panty-line debacle. Boy-shorts have hit the scene, and it seems everyone is wearing them. And, I can see why. Whereas the seamless, flimsy, nylon panties disintegrated, almost on contact, and thongs made ordinary movement excruciating, boy-shorts appeared to suffer neither of these traits. And, minus the confining elastic usually comprising the leg-hole of ordinary panties, the material rides along the bottom of one’s bottom, allowing a tiny peek of cheek. They are cute, bordering on sassy, and after some consideration, I placed an order.

Last weekend, I attended one of my favorite types of event, a garden party. The weather was warm without being hot, and a soft breeze was the perfect accompaniment to my crinkly, gauze, long skirt. I’d yet to wear my newly purchased boy-shorts, and decided this was the perfect occasion. The first pull came upon alighting from the vehicle in front of the house. Several minutes later, after climbing the steps to the deck, my hand went again to the back of my skirt. As I was directed to a table with filled plate in hands, I felt again a need to tug at the back of my underwear, but realized waiting until moving to sit might camouflage what had become a repeated movement. As I tugged again, I envisioned wearers of leotards, ballerinas and gymnasts, and their constant repositioning of their garments, and I knew I’d discovered the downfall of the latest trend in women’s underwear.

Next day, as I dressed in a similar manner for the office, I chose an older, more reliable pair of underwear while making a mental note to place an order for more. The boy-shorts though, will remain in my lingerie drawer. After all, they are cute, bordering on sassy, and there are times when a peek of cheek is more important than comfort.

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