I have decided that I need to buy more underwear. I had this epiphany this morning as I rushed around getting ready for the day and could not find one single, solitary pair of clean underwear…except for the one pair that could not be worn. I stood there, holding this last hope in my hand, contemplating what to do. I checked for size, condition, and color. Wear it? Deal with the pain that these would inevitably cause? Just last week, I wore the other pair, the sister pair, to the ones in my hand and it was not pretty.
There I was at the kitchen counter, about to head off to work, when I noticed the pain of elastic that was so taut I was starting to wonder if I had mistakenly pulled on an old wire support bra that was buried in my drawer. It was cutting through me at every angle and curve that it was coming in contact with, but I needed to leave–a panty hunt was out. I needed to solve the problem. After contemplating this for about a minute, scoping the kitchen for a magical pair of pop-up panties, it hit me. Sitting there in front of me were the red handles of my kitchen scissors. Yes, I was about to put the extent of my sewing knowledge to the test. All those hours of Project Runway were about to pay off. I pulled out the scissors and carefully pushed them down my pants and snipped the elastic on each leg, setting us both free. It was a beautiful moment, leaving me feeling very handy and thinking my mom would be so proud. Until I got to work.
By midday, my newly cut undies had turned into some sort of hybrid clothing article–a cross between a thong, a diaper, and a strange belt. Both newly cut openings had rolled up, bunched up,…, and I continued my day just like that, because, despite their new state and my worries that they’d get lost in there or fall to the ground as I walked down the hall, they were clean and somewhat functional–as far as a diaper-thong-belt could be.
So a new day and a new underwear dilemma that needed my immediate attention. No time for laundry and no time for undie surgery, and, unfortunately, my life training included clean underwear at all times. So now what? I have no underwear except a pair that could literally amputate a leg if left on long enough.
Thoughts of clean underwear folded beautifully began to haunt me and that rolled into the idea of big girl undies that were marked with the days of the week like I had as a kid, but these would also say week one and week two…and then a few extra pairs that said Do your laundry! and Seriously, do your fucking laundry! And then, of course, this had to pop into my mind: The Panty Basket. That’s right, people. I grew up with a panty basket in the house. For those of you who did NOT grow up with four sisters in the south, a panty basket, not to be mistaken with The Sock Basket, is a round plastic laundry basket that held all the clean underwear in the house. You needed a pair? Go to the panty basket. You have a favorite pair? Better get to that dryer before anyone else and dig for it! That simple.
As these dreams of underwear slowly receded, my reality set in.
Sorry, Mom, and I promise to do my laundry tonight.