U is for Underwear

UI think that underwear occupies far too much of our collective consciousness.

If you’re extremely lucky, you put it on in morning and never think about it again until it’s time to take it off.

If you’re unlucky, you get a pair that creeps. You’re walking down the hallway at work, perhaps slightly nervous about the presentation you’re about to give, and your underwear launches 70% of its surface area into the crevice of your buttocks.

What to do? You don’t have time to go to the restroom and wrestle it into submission. And you can’t just reach around, grab hold and give it a yank, because that’s exactly when the Big Boss will step into the hallway with the Important Client. You can’t look dignified with your hand wedged into your butt, trying to clutch at an edge, any edge, of slippery fabric.

Perhaps you have a vicious, malicious pair, the kind that will wait until you are exactly midway through standing up or sitting down to casually wrap a seam around seven unsuspecting pubic hairs and try to wrench them out by the roots if you don’t stop moving right that second.

Again, no delicate, unobtrusive way to disengage. Thrusting¬† one’s hand down one’s pants is frowned upon in most workplaces, public transportation and restaurants. You can attempt an Elvis-worthy hip shimmy, but likely you’ll just get things wound up tighter.

Let’s not forget to salute the elastic that gives up and commits stretchy suicide at the most inopportune moment, leading to drooping at best and falling off at worst.

For some, that delicate lace edging that looked so delicate and feminine in the store turns into a maddening itchy nightmare as soon as you’re far enough from the house that you can’t go home and change. You might end up itchy and irritable all day. You might end up with a rash and a friction burn. Underwear roulette, where nobody wins.

What about the restless kind, that seems to bunch and slide and move around as if it has attained sentience and is looking for the nearest exit? You might as well be wearing a snake down there, the way it slithers around, never quite still.

And those are just the garments on the bottom half.

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