This morning, it being the end of my period, I grabbed a pair of panties that fall into the I Don’t Really Give A Shit About You category from the underwear drawer: cornflower-blue boyshorts with a wacked-out hieroglyph parade of tiny leopards, 80s-bubble hearts and yes, a ZIPPER in the front, plucked from a 5-for-a-dollar pile in downtown Los Angeles this spring. I slipped them on under my little grey shift dress and shoved my rump towards the mirror to see the pantyline situation. Given that I sit on my ass all day it was fine. And then I had a vivid recollection of my very first pair of thong underwear.
My first thong was purchased at The Urban Outfitters in
I can still see the tag in my little black thong: HELENE it said, in all Chanel-style caps. When I got home and tried on this RACY article of clothing, it shocked the hell out of me to find that it was the most comfortable pair of panties I owned, because when a thong fits exactly right, it’s like wearing no undies at all. I adored this damn thong as it made me feel super-sophisticated and would sometimes launder it by hand in order to get a second wearing in a week. When packing my bag to go anywhere I made sure it was in the panty pile. I became one of those women who talked about how comfortable thongs were in the same tone that actresses use to describe how they eat whatever they want in interviews. When HELENE finally bit the dust I was so sad. I know HELENE moved to
I’ve always imbued inanimate objects with auras and personalities, and feel about my underwear drawer a bit like I did about my stuffed animals when I was a child – and still do. There are clear favorites and outsiders, and then the kind of guilt one feels at having favorites, that leads to things like packing 7 pairs of panties for a 2 day trip so no one feels insulted, the same preposterous agony one feels choosing your MySpace Top 8.
And each pair of underwear has a story. My first Cosabella thong, long gone now, bright red, given me by my ex-so-called best friend, in 1999 when the Cosabella thong was the Prada messenger bag of panties.
When I lived with my good friend Hope in our railroad apartment, we would repeatedly buy each other cute underwear from
I remember wearing only men’s tightie-whities as I blew dry my hair in the
I lost the bra long ago but have a now non-matching black silk thong with lace flowers manufactured in the the pre-low-rise ear of thongery that I paid too much money for at Pink Slip in Grand Central Station: once a crown jewel of my underwear drawer, now relegated to the back of the rotation, due to its high waist and far-gone elastic.
And I have all the panties of Trey’s and my courtship heyday: lots of wispy things with tie-side ribbons that went best with thigh-highs under a skirt that I can’t be bothered to put on these days when I am groggy and late for work in the morning, opting instead for the beloved H&M black boyshorts. But how I remember getting wet under the fluorescent lights of
I remember, from a summer home from college, a favorite pair of sage green panties with lace trim and black polka dots from Filene’s that I retrieved from the floor one morning only to find that our dog had eaten the crotch in one bite while leaving the waistband intact, the way a little kid scrapes out the white of an Oreo.