And this really truly is a photo of me 🙂

Aloe vera or bamboo madam?

I recently found myself working once again after a three month lull. I managed to score two jobs which more or less combine into one full time job. One of the more joyful offshoots of this event is that I now have a wage packet which I can live on. To celebrate I shouted myself a pile of new knickers.
Now knickers (or undies) are one of life’s necessities. I find my knicker drawer often reflects my life. If it is full of dejected, faded, sagging lycra and unravelling elastic, then you can assume I just haven’t had the dosh to splurge on nice new undies. And, as life often imitates art (or is it the other way around Oscar Wilde?) my life is often dejected, faded, sagging and unravelled in a parallel universe. In other words, my undies go out in sympathy and become a living, or perhaps a dying metaphor for my life as it is currently.
As I started my new job and one day found one bum cheek escaping the confines of the undy, I decided then and there that the time had come to splurge when the pay packet arrived. But alas, undie lovers – how do you choose what to buy. Also, what is the singular of ‘undies’? Is it undy? If not, I am now coining the word. I am a fan of the cotton bikini brief. It is a good compromise. It means I am not quite old, but I am no spring chicken either. If I get run over, they will not make headlines. Big granny knickers remind me of the terrors of approaching old age. Boy legs make me look like a sumo wrestler and the back view of me in a thong could remind the uncharitably minded of a wizened peach with string loosely dividing the orbs. Ugh. The only people who look sexy in a thong are strippers – and I think perhaps that they aren’t really sexy – just comodifying sex. Men who say women look sexy in a thong have never worn one. It is just plain uncomfortable. Some lingering comment long ago about dental floss…ugh…don’t go there.
Anyway. I am in Target amongst the rows of undy heaven. Mariah Carey is warbling over the muzak intercom. I am busy trying to tune her and the overly loud toddlers out. Then I spot them. They are no longer called plain cotton undies. They are now in ‘Aloe vera’ or ‘Bamboo’ fabric. Being the literally minded soul I am I see me wearing a knicker with green aloe vera spikes protruding from my gusset or worse – bamboo shoots like a form of awful underwear torture. Is this a new form of pain to endure in the world of underwear? Is it going to be reminiscent of being stabbed in the bosom with an underwire escapee before it jams itself into the inner workings of your washing machine? Are these organic undies going to be clammy or prickly like the nasty nylon ones? But no, the light comes on. Its the fabric – sort of organic and nice for you, so nice for your body. If you were hungry you could warm them up and serve then on a bed of soba noodles with wasabi sauce.

I am now proud to hang my undies on the line. They can line up on the outside of the line fit for public view. They no longer need to skulk away hiding in dejected little bundles behind the socks. They reside in three neat piles of skin tone, white and black – all with a matching bra. Ahh, now my life is complete. I can pass undy scrutiny along with the best.

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