If your panties don't come up to your armpits, you paid too much.

4 years ago

Do you ever have those days where you just seem hell-bent to make a total ass of yourself? If you answered "no," you clearly don't hang out with me enough. Or eat enough cheese. But that might be a different issue. I'll keep you posted.

I was at the outlet mall with my mom and sister, browsing the Jockey outlet. I don't want to let you in on the secrets of my underwear drawer.

But I'm going to anyway. (I think we all saw that coming.) What I'm about to show you is not all I've got. Keep in mind that I have some "age appropriate" underwear, as Carter calls it. (Note: "Age appropriate" means underwear with see-through panels, missing pieces, or barely enough fabric to cover a, ...shall we say, "curvaceous" rear. In other words, apparently, my granny panties aren't "it.") 

This was why I went into Jockey. (And why I strategically went without Carter.) 




Doesn't she look like she's having the best time in her full-coverage panties made of eco-friendly bamboo fibers which are extra soft and allow her to feel breezy and free all day without the fear of either bunching or panty lines?

Clearly, I haven't given this any thought at all.

And the answer is "F*ck yes, she does."

So I've selected an armful of my granny pants, i.e. the best panties ever made by man or deity and I remember that I'm married and all and that since I'm married and all, I should probably look for something for Carter.

It is worth noting, unfortunately, that Jockey was the last store I visited that day and therefore I wasn't having this burst of common decency until the end. But I had it. So it counts. (Note: the next day, Carter made out like a bandit and I didn't buy a thing for myself. ...Okay, that's not true. I got ice cream. So, I didn't really get something. I merely added to the percussive nature of my thighs grating together in Southern heat and humidity. Yep. Yum.) 

Anyway, I went to the mens wall in Jockey and spotted what appeared to be some compression shorts that Carter is always talking about needing. They were being modeled by a very athletic looking mannequin torso set up in front of a picture of the love-baby of John Wayne and Cary Grant wearing nothing but these short things.

Don't believe me?


I didn't want to titillate anyone too much.

So I go to the wall of "compression fabrics" to examine these "shorts," which I found nearly indistinguishable from those spandex bike shorts I wore obsessively back in the nineties. And because I am a careful consumer, I decided to give them a really goodexamination.

I turned them backward and forward. Looks fine.

I pulled at the waistband. Mmhmm, mmhmm. Yes. Appears to be quality.

Keep in mind, for your mental image, that I was only able to do all of this field examination hands-free because I was wearing the 6 pairs of underwear I intended to buy for myself like bangles all up my forearm. Because shopping baskets are for p*ssies, that's why.

All seemed in order, except for one tiny thing that I could not figure out. I could not find the emergency exit, so to speak. I am told that this is called a "fly" but really, who knew that term extended to underwear as well as pants? Okay, you probably all knew that. But stick with me, my story gets better.

I was determined to find this elusive fly before purchasing the compression shorts. So there I am, pulling at the crotch of these things from all angles, trying to find an opening. I would like to tell you that this only went on for a few seconds. I would really like to tell you that. But as you well know, I am determined and I am a pain in the ass.

It went on for literal minutes before I was stopped by a kindly panty-store attendant who gently informed me in her deep southern accent, "Sugar, you can tug all you want, but that ain't gonna open for you."

Story of my life? Or the best "that's what she said" ever uttered in real time?

Upon telling Carter about this incident, and about the 6 men who watched me assault that spandex (transfixed, I might add), he had such a fit of hysterical laughing that I thought he was going to go all "weird dude from Mary Poppins who can fly and drink tea on the ceiling" on me and that I was going to have to go all "my morbidly obese hamster suffocated herself in her sleep" on him. You know, just to bring him back down to earth. Not to crush his dreams or happiness or anything.

ME: It's not funny. Who the hell makes men's underwear without a flap/slit thingy? What, do they expect you to take time away from all of your athletic activities to sit down to pee?

CARTER: Uh.....

ME: Clearly, they don't know you at all. Maybe it wasn't a design flaw. Maybe I just didn't look hard enough.

CARTER: Babe, from the sound of it, if there had been even a gap in the stitching, I think you would have found it.

And then he went back to laughing. For 12 hours. I guess it's "age-inappropriate" underwear for a while in this house, Carter. Have I mentioned how comfortable these ribcage-high panties are?

Katie Pilkington

Writer of Nested and Bourbon - Neat - and Baking on the Rocks

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