When you reach your late mid-forties, it’s easy to feel like you are nothing more than a lunch-making drop-off machine, especially when you work from home and have no reason, ever, to get dressed.
So in the Target lingerie department recently, I had an existential midlife crisis along the lines of: “I’m still a woman! I deserve pretty things!”
Ordinarily, once a year I buy a six-pack of Hanes underwear in bulk to replace the ratty pairs from the previous year. I prefer the “hipster” fit, which has nothing to do with morose, sarcastic Brooklynites and everything to do with covering one’s entire money maker. And I like my backside to be concealed, since my ass is in definite need of some landscaping.
Just then, my gaze alit upon the fancy panties. And at this point in my life, “pretty things” equals underwear sold on hangers instead of underwear sold in shrink-wrapped packages. The packs are like six bucks for the whole lot, and the pretty underwear was on sale two for ten dollars. So I bought four pairs. This was more than I had spent on underwear for the past four years combined. But whatever it takes to give the old gal some confidence, right? I grabbed an animal print, a Tiffany blue, a basic black, and a nude, for the white pants that I will never own.
When I donned the first pair, I had high hopes. Suddenly, I would be transformed into a person who deserved nice things. I’d just know, as I wrapped a box of Squinkies for a preschool birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese that, underneath it all, I was still special. Sexy, even.
But something felt funny almost instantly. Something wedged up my rear. There was a definite lack of the ass-coverage I require. And with dawning horror, I realized: These were not the hipster briefs to which I’ve become accustomed.
See, the thing that is really handy about the plastic bag underwear is that they show you a picture of a lady wearing the panties in question so you can get a visual on the fit. So if it is “bikini” it looks like this:
And if it is “briefs” it looks like granny pants:
And so on.
Apparently, these underwear photos are crucial so that I don’t ACCIDENTALLY BUY THONGS.
Damn it, though, I am a Minnesotan, born and raised, and we don’t waste things. And so I WILL WEAR THESE THONGS UNTIL THEY FALL APART. And darned if these hanger-panties aren’t sturdy. They are, apparently, worth every penny I splurged on them. No amount of washing seems to ruin them so I can move on with my life.
So if you see a mom in the grocery store with a cart full of Lunchables, sporting MILF-y gray capri sweats that have a crotch hole sewn up with brown embroidery thread, her dirty hair pulled back in a scrunchie, and if you notice that she is walking like she uncomfortably needs to find a restroom stat, don’t you worry about her.
She feels pretty on the inside.
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