Today, for the first time since I was a child, I am wearing all new underwear.
No, I’m not trying to be provocative, really I’m not. I think any mom can tell you that, while the rest of the family receives a regular delivery of fresh underwear, we will pin, tack, darn and patch ours until it disintegrates. Our underwear doesn’t get thrown away; it just dissolves in the laundry.
This is not a martyrdom issue – at least not for me. For some reason I have a sense of pride knowing that my Jockeys have outlasted three administrations and most of a fourth.
And there is a certain security in underwear that has been broken in, so one does not make lightly the decision to purchase new.
I have very strict criteria for my everyday underwear. First and foremost, the panties have to be cotton and no elastic can touch my skin. I’ll admit, I do have lacy nylon abominations that I trot out every now and again for special occasions (i.e., when I’m going to be uncomfortable anyway with heels on my shoes and a body smoother), but for the most part give me the breathability of cotton any day.
Unfortunately for me, brassieres must be of the underwire variety because I actually need a bra. I know there is the school of thought that, if you just let the girls travel south you can tuck them into your waistband and look flat-chested or, in my case, like a potato. No, I’m not quite ready to look like Jane Darwell. So my bras are engineering miracles of gravity-defying construction and a wonder to behold, rather like the
This weekend I came to the conclusion that what was left of my underwear wardrobe was rather embarrassing and I no longer had a single set of underwear I could wear to leave the house that was presentable “in case of an accident.” And so I bought new underwear.
Which means, you would think, that I could now throw away the worst of the old underwear.
You’d think that wouldn’t you?