They were among my best friends – strong, silent, and supportive. They’ve always been there for me and while their task was always a big one, it was never bigger than they could handle. They’ve seen me at my best – and my worst. They’ve absorbed burdens that none of my other friends could imagine. My secrets have always been safe with them. They were my protectors – and I treasured them.
But those dear, dear relationships – some of them spanning as many as fifteen years – had to come to an end. In their continuing effort to “tart” me up, my daughters decided that my friends – my beloved granny panties – had to go. Apparently now that my breasts functioned as chin supports and my nipples pointed dead ahead like my car’s high beams, it was time to re-wrap the back of the package.
The girls dangled before me what appeared to be a collection of colorful tea bags. I was at a loss as to how one really wore the things – and on what? Or did they wear you? They were so tiny – and my butt was so big! How did I know they wouldn’t get lost in there? And if they did, would I need medical assistance to find and extract them?
The girls insisted that by not having panty lines, I’d feel sexy. I failed to see how this crack floss would accomplish that – unless of course the constant twitching of my hips in an effort to dislodge it functioned as an auto-erotic fertility dance of some sort. Besides, my butt was behind me. And I was not in the habit of watching it.
But they were my daughters and I understood that they wanted the best for me (or at the very least they wanted a new stepfather who would make my retirement less expensive for them), so I acquiesced and agreed to give the string a try.
I rarely wore anything except slacks to the office, however for my inaugural wearing of the thong thing, I actually chose a skirt. I figured if I was going to be fishing the damn thing out from between my cheeks all day, I’d need easy access to it. Heaven forbid I should have to go to the restroom, unzip my jeans, push them down, find the string and pull it out, hoist the jeans back up, re-zip, take a few steps, then turn around, go back into the bathroom and start all over again. In a skirt I could cut the work in half; just reach up and — sproing!
My five-mile commute felt more like five hundred long, excruciating miles. Each time I moved my leg, the rope would wedge itself deeper in my crack. I took the freeway so as to avoid the guilt of running over any pedestrians in my path as I avoided the pain of braking. Never had I been so happy to see my parking space! I suspect my car was still rolling as I leaped from it, turned my back to a tree and – sproing! But even before I reached the door, the rope was again lodged between my cheeks! Sproing! Holy shit!
I called one of my fashion consultants to ask her how to keep it out of there.
“Mom, you don’t. If it’s that uncomfortable just pull it off and go commando.”
It was a very, very long day.