In The Knickers of Time

There was a time when I could have pulled off wearing little bikini knickers and fancy frillies. But I was young and had no money, so those pretty things were far beyond the realm of possibility. Fast forward 20 years and I have more cash, but not the rear-end to pull it off.

That said, knicker fashions have changed considerably since the days when you could bounce a quarter off my posterior. (Do that today, and I fear it would simply sink in, like feeding a parking meter. Twenty years will do that.) Nevertheless, I have to say that even IF I had ‘buns of steel’, my tastes have always been more ‘Victorian Prostitute’ than ‘Truck-Stop Stripper.’ Unfortunately for me, Truck-Stop Stripper fashion is ubiquitous these days. Because the Victorian Prostitute isn’t en vogue right now, her style of undergarments aren’t being produced en masse… which means that finding such garments is very difficult – not to mention expensive.

Pretty bras are much easier to find; it’s the knickers that disappoint. Whatever happened to the idea that it’s what you don’t see that is sexy, of leaving things up to the imagination? I really count on someone having a fantastic imagination – especially when the lights are on. Skimpy knickers just won’t do. The result is settling for the middle-ground – boy shorts, or whatever else has more fabric dedicated to the rear.

Not long ago, I decided it was time to purchase some new knickers….

Setting: La Vie En Rose

Mental State: hopeful, but resigned to disappointment

And… scene!

How nice, a sale – 7 pairs for 20$ (or something crazy like that)… why that’s almost stealing! In I go. Now, I’m not sure why, but whenever I go shopping, The Girl from Impanema starts playing in my head. Perhaps it’s my subconscious trying to calm me down with a little bossa nova so that I don’t clock the overbearing sales clerks. I’ve attached the song to give you the full Me-at-the-Mall experience… (note: the one that plays in my head is the elevator music version)

So this sweet young thing pops out of nowhere and starts explaining the sale to me – apparently, I give off the vibe that I’m illiterate and didn’t pass grade 6 math. My size had limited stock in the boy shorts- which was comforting since this means that I must be ‘average’. Sensing my disappointment, she starts her salespitch for the dreaded THONG….

Sweet Salesgirl (from here on in referred to as SS.. wait, scratch that… SG): Well, we have a lot of this kind in a lot of different colours…

Me: Yeah, they’re not for me… not very comfortable….

SG: Oh, after three days you won’t even notice it! (she said as they held an example by the string in question)

Me: I dunno… If I get something caught between my teeth it drives me nuts to the point that I obsessively pick at it until it’s out… I don’t want to be doing that with underwear…

SG: Well, the good thing about them is that it looks like you’re not wearing anything, you don’t see panty lines under your clothes…

Me: Why would I want people to think I’m not wearing panties? If I want them to think that, why not just go without and keep it honest?

SG: *confused expression* [I could be wrong, but I believe this is the sound that was echoing in her head:]

Me: Listen, I appreciate your suggestions and it’s very sweet of you to think that I could actually pull off wearing these things, but under no circumstances am I ever going to be caught dead or alive wearing a thong – unless it’s on a flipflop, on my feet. If I get into an accident and some handsome firefighter has to cut off all my clothing, the last thing I want to worry about is if those panties make my kiester look big… and we both know they will.

At this point, she’s sporting a smile that suggests that she either thinks I’m crazy or she doesn’t understand the word ‘kiester’ or she’s trying to imagine what circumstance would require a fireman to cut off one’s clothing .

I left empty-handed.

Fin.

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