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I never gave much thought to my underpants when I was a kid. They
seemed straightforward enough. Ranking them was easy. Plain white
obviously took lowest billing. Any color was better than plain white.
Bright colors were better than their duller counterparts. Then there
were the underwear with flowers or bows. They were pretty enough and
more interesting even than hot pink or neon yellow. Top of the heap, of
course, was reserved for panties with Disney characters. My preference
for Ariel panties bordered on instinctual, and I gravitated towards
them the same way that a dog prefers steak to kibble. Little Mermaid
underpants were the epitome of panties when I was a little girl.


Fifteen plus years later, and I still have a ranking system for my
underpants. They aren’t so much divided by color and pattern anymore as
they are by broader categories: the most important being cute/not so
cute and pragmatic/not so pragmatic/so far from pragmatic it would make
your head spin. These categories allow me to provide balance. For
example, if I know that I’m going to spend the day in sweats, I’m
probably going to be wearing a cute little thong underneath them to
remind myself that I’m not completely unattractive. Alternately, if you
find me in the clichéd “little black dress” ensemble, there’s a solid
chance that my underwear are white, boring, and very covering. My
underwear drawer is all but overflowing, but I can easily categorize at
a glance.


The truth is, I have roughly enough underwear in my underwear
drawer to last me 40 laundry-free days. If God decided to flood the
earth again, I’d be set for underpants. I feel that the historical
precedent merits the precaution; the world wide flood scenario has been
in the back of my mind for years. I figure that arks don’t come with a
fluff and fold, so I’m thinking its best to be prepared. Forty clean
pairs at minimum. So perhaps it’s that historically based prudence that
keeps me coming again and again to the underwear aisle. Perhaps… If I
actually believe there is a "God" and these fairy tales of the Bible.


But I’m thinking it’s the glitter. Not unlike pack-rats, women are
drawn to shiny objects. That’s why so many of us have rhinestones on
our skivvies. A woman’s underwear aisle seems to be (regardless of the
store) product of a bored fashion designer eating a bowl of lucky
charms. It’s not hard to picture a crazed leprechaun running down the
rows yelling: “Hearts, Stars, and Horseshoes! Clovers and Blue Moons!
Pots of Gold and Rainbows! And me red balloons!” Look hard enough, and
I can pretty much guarantee that you will find all of those things…set
against pink…and outlined in glitter. Just Saying.


Of course, I can intellectually tirade against this sparkle
obsession, but I’m really just as much a sucker for it as the next
girl. I’m not much of an impulse shopper, but show me a cute enough
pair of underwear, and they’re coming with me to the checkout counter.


I’m fairly certain that I’m not alone. When I make the occasional
trip to Victoria’s Secret, I become increasingly aware of just how much
women are willing to spend for their glitter fix. To be honest, at
Victoria’s Secret, the underpants aren’t the draw for me. Rather, I
have one of those bodies that prompts teen magazines to ask boys, “So,
are girls like rocks? Just skip the flat ones?” (though I prefer to
think of my chest as “gravity friendly”) and I find it easier to find
bras at more specialized stores. Still, my intended reason for shopping
there does not make me immune to the glitter draw once I get in. More
than once, I have walked in with the intention of buying one bra, and,
instead, walk out with five new bikini panties.



And while I can catalogue example after example of my own weakness, I’m
still not fully sure what the draw is. However, I can personally
guarantee that it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with who will
see them. In my case, I can tell you with total confidence that the
answer is no one. (Unless my cats count, but they don’t seem to have a
preference.)


Personally, I think there are two engrained reasons. The first is
that, no matter what sort of clothes weather or laziness have you
forced into, the right underwear can keep you thinking, “ah, but my
underpants are pretty.” This is where the cute and not so pragmatic
categories come into play. It seems odd, shallow really, but when
Midwestern winters have me in three shirts and at least two pair of
socks, my prissy pink, lacy underwear remind me that, somewhere
underneath it all, my butt looks cute. (This rationale also applied
when I worked retail and was forced to wear khaki pants and an over
sized polo shirt everyday.)


The other reason, in my own personal opinion, is more learned.
Anyone else remember their mother’s adage: “Be sure to wear clean
underwear! What if you got in an accident?” Now, personally, I always
thought that whoever pulled me from whatever sort of wreckage this
accident entailed should have the good sense not to pants me to check
for clean underwear. That is the assumption. After all, the underwear
should be the least of your worries if you’re in that position.
However, several years back, I learned something: if you get in an
accident and are only sort of badly injured, it appears to matter.


About four or five years ago, a friend of mine got into a car
accident. She was in the impact zone, and of the three people in the
car, she was the only one to remain unconscious. Everyone got a
fun-filled ambulance ride (destination – emergency room). Being
unconscious, my friend got the extra special bonus of having her
clothes, including her favorite pair of jeans, cut off of her by
someone she would later identify as “the ridiculously hot intern.”
What, pray tell, did said ridiculously hot intern find? Well, whether
he actually thought about it or not, he found nasty, second day, granny
panties (or, as I refer to such panties in my own collection, day 39).


The danger of a ridiculously hot intern seeing day thirty-nines
must be the reason for our mothers’ warning. That possibility makes the
warning all the more immediate: always, always, always wear clean
underwear!



Seems simple enough really. The procedure is as follows: pull out a clean pair when you get ready and put them on.



Some people apparently have a hard time with the steps. (Of course, not
everyone is as prepared as I am…and even I have been known to haul it
to the store and buy a package of Hanes to avoid an upcoming laundry
day.) Most of the time I think it comes down to laundry – why do it
when you can just not? Jeans, after all, can be worn time and again
before people catch on…and people see those.


But that’s just one possibility. Evidently some people just forget
which underwear have been worn and which haven’t. This is why we have
“day of the week” underwear. Helps keep things straight. (Also, a handy
way to remember to record your favorite show: every time you pee, your
underpants remind you to record Gray’s Anatomy.) The danger lies in
what may happen if you get dressed in the dark. What happens if you end
up with a Tuesday pair on a Monday and then get in an accident? That’s
right, the ridiculously hot intern thinks you’ve been in the same pair
for nearly a week…and that’s just gross. Of course, not all underwear
can be as practical as the “day of the week” underwear, but some do
come close. Thongs, as an underwear sub-group, can render that nasty
“double butt” (of course referring to the visible lines created by the
bikini) a non-issue. This is handy on occasions you find it necessary
to wear especially tight pants: biking, yoga, your presidential
internship interviews (or was that just during the Clinton
administration?). And, though I have an inkling that the world might be
a better place if one had to apply for the right to wear thongs with
pants (shorts, etc) that might reveal the thong when leaning over or
picking something up, the practicality of the lineless panty is
undeniable.


Frankly, it would appear that some thongs were designed
specifically to be seen when you bend over. Entire songs are written on
the subject. (Ironically, “The Thong Song” was playing when my
aforementioned friend later flipped her car down a hill – a subtle
reminder from the universe to keep the ridiculously hot intern incident
in mind? Perhaps…) Regardless, you have to appreciate the irony of
flaunting a pair of underwear originally designed for detection
avoidance. (Reminds me of another of my mother’s adages, “Don’t wear
pink polka dot underwear under white pants…no matter how cute the polka
dots are.”)



Still, panty lines aside, thongs sometimes prove the least practical of
undergarment choices. I remember when, while walking through the mall,
one of my best friends quietly informed me of her thong/mini-skirt
combo. She laughed, obviously less comfortable than she thought she’d
be. I laughed, thinking that the situation must be rather drafty and
wondering what the best game plan for the escalator would be. I have
never made that sort of questionable choice: I have, however, been
unintentionally made to regret my decision to wear a thong at least
twice. Both times involved jean rippage along the back pocket seam and
quiet horror as I wondered just how long I had been unaware of the
situation. Those days, I would have given almost anything to have been
wearing blue, polka dot bikinis.