Part Four: Underneath it all
Subtitle: you are what you wear.

So then, all was well (meaning I didn’t buy anything else) until we hit Nordstrom. We were going to look for bras, and the fitting ladies at Nordstrom are my bra-fitting-gurus. Genius they are, in a class all their own (except perhaps for the one creepy guy I keep hearing about down at 32nd Street and Thomas - who apparently can accurately tell your exact bra size just by looking at you, but I digress).

It so happens that my own bras are not giving me quite the lift and separation they used to. After a year and a half of yanking them down breastfeed multiple times a day I was inching closer and closer back to saggy and draggy.

Can’t have that.

So, we did the measuring* and the trying and all that necessary but not so fun stuff and found what we needed (although my usual M.O. is to figure out what I need at Nordstrom and then find it for 1/3 of the cost on eBay. Shhh - don’t tell anyone). On the way to pay we happened to glance around at the panty selection.

Right in front of me I saw the most beautiful circular rainbow of brightly coloured wisps of lace - the display for the Hanky Panky Low Rise Thong. My mind went to my current underwear drawer, filled with dingy, grayish, serviceable panties (not granny panties, mind you, I have not sunk that low yet). Nothing even remotely approaching sexy to be found.

In my former life I had a drawer full of the cutest lingerie - matching bras and panties for all occasions and outfit requirements. After all, you never know when you’re going to get in that car accident or…something. But then I got married and had kids and [insert sad, pathetic all-to-familiar tale of finding happiness but losing bits of ones self along the way]. Somehow at that moment, I felt like my entire life could be summed up by my pathetic underwear collection.

I saw the $18 price tag, and winced. First $100 dollar denim and now $20 underpants? I must have been mistaking myself for someone with money.

I tried to talk myself out of it, really I did** but then I saw that they came in the most perfect kelly green (I so love green, don’t you?). They called my name much too loudly for any remaining shred of common sense to drown out their tempting siren song. I didn’t have a chance, don’t you see?

After all, wouldn’t it be wrong to wear my amazing new clothes with depressing, old worn out underwear underneath? Almost insulting, somehow. I mean, there’s always that threat of a car accident or…something.

Perhaps it was the catchy beat of Nickelback’s Rockstar that was playing in the store at the time that convinced me I was just the kind of girl who needed these panties (I mean, don’t we all just wanna be a rockstar?). Rockstars do not, I am certain, wear boring, dingy panties.

Whatever justification I throw at it (and clearly I can come up with several), I left the store with those panties.

I abhor the thought of becoming predictable, but you knew I would, didn’t you?

They are so worth the 20 bucks. I have gone through several thong wearing periods, but (no matter how much I tried to convince myself) it was never a comfort thing. It was often a practical panty line thing - nobody wants to be the only one in the room with a bad case of VPL.

There’s also the whole idea that nice undergarments are kind of like a bullet proof vest. No matter what the rest of you looks like, if you’ve got on nice lingerie it’s still possible to feel like everything is under control. I could wear dirty sweats and not brush my hair - but if I was wearing this for instance, I am fairly certain I could take on the world.

Indeed (I feel my very own feminist treatise coming on) nice lingerie is all about female empowerment. Uh huh.

And also, there is always that car accident possibility.

…Okay - back on track…

So seriously, these panties ARE all that and then some. Apparently Hollywood loves them as well (there’s that rockstar thing again). They are comfy, they are beyond sexy, and being low rise, thin lace and thong-ish they are, in reality, quite functional too. All this - and one size fits most - a veritable miracle of modern fashion engineering. When I’m wearing them I feel a bit saucier, a bit sexier, and a little bit bad, in a very good way.

I think I’ve been talking about them a tad too much though. Recently, my friends and I got a hotel suite in Scottsdale for our annual sanity retreat (highly recommended, all you mamas out there). Apparently I went on-and-on about my passionate feeling for my new panties (I say apparently, ‘cause I consumed a few frozen strawberry margaritias, so I couldn’t necessarily give an accurate report).

At some point my friend Nancy told me to “Take off your *ucking pants already” and just show everyone the damn things.*** If you know Nancy, you’ll know she just doesn’t talk like that (that would be Karen’s role). She so startled me that I found myself standing up and unzipping my jeans (yes, those jeans) to give them a peek. I had to. You just don’t say no to Nancy, especially when she gets all tough like that.

[Note: Despite my peek-a-boo sessions with some of my nearest and dearest, this entry will not be accompanied by another self-portrait. A lady has to keep SOME things from her public. It’s the air of mystery that keeps you coming back, and all that.]

I want to own more pairs. I want my own miniature lace rainbow. I am being held back however, by the idea that I could have five pairs of panties, or another brand new pair of kick ass expensive jeans.

Tough call.

* Dream Shameless Strapless by Le Mystere: 32 G. Thirty-two G! So much for my hopes that they had gotten smaller since Jules cut down on nursing.

**Don’t think I can’t see the skeptical smirk on your face. I’m crazy intuitive like that.

***My friends, dear though they are, do not take well to the idea that they cannot know and see everything about my life. And yea - Crazy Queen K - I’m talking ‘bout you in particular.