It’s hard to work up a heap of sympathy for your average suicide bomber, but I felt a twinge for the fellow who failed to detonate his underpants on that flight into Detroit. If I were planning to go out in a blaze of glory, I wouldn’t want my underpants to survive me, either. And don’t think it couldn’t happen. On New Year’s Day a few decades ago here in Portland, a fellow opened up the gas line to his house and blew it to smithereens. I was two miles away, and it was still the loudest sound I’d ever heard. There was nothing left of his house but the mortgage, and he took out the neighbors’ houses, too, but there he was, dead in his yard, fully intact in his underpants. They probably weren’t even riding up.
I don’t think men’s underpants do ride up. I never see men making an adjustment or anything. Oh, they may fiddle around in there, but it’s always the package they’re fiddling with, not the wrapping. A female suicide bomber would have been a complete success. If we were supposed to add a liquid to the explosive powder in our underpants, we could do that during tea with the Queen and no one would ever know. Every day requires dozens of such surreptitious adjustments. We’ve got it down.
As a letter carrier, I had to slide out of the tall driver’s seat onto the pavement all day long, and the entire right side of my underpants disappeared every time. It only took a few steps to arrange my satchel as a shield and perform the extraction, with no one the wiser.
Then I’d start walking my beat, and my recently-thwarted underpants would get bored and irritable. So they would scout out the territory until, within a block, they had located the exact largest circumference on my ass, and then they’d settle in and make a nice indentation to flag the spot, because they did not yet have sequin-and-flashing-lights technology. There they would remain, snug as the Tropic of Capricorn, with all of Brazil pooching out to the north. You can tug them back to the equator and make it look like you’re just stretching your back, but you’ll be doing it all day long.
Women of a certain age that is not mine wear the thong, in part, to avoid this particular constriction. Well, if that ain’t like curing insomnia with a whack upside the head, I don’t know what is. A deliberate wedgie is still a wedgie. No thank you, Junior. It’s hard enough taking my clothes off some days without having to excavate.
To really put the cherry on top of the whole underwear experience, though, you must add tights. Tights are sold in a variety of sizes, none of them mine. I am parked on the cusp, and my choices are to tuck the tights under my bra and watch them puddle up at the ankles, or get the ones that come out of the dryer eighteen inches long and fit like a sausage casing.
There is, however, no avoiding “control-top” hose, even if you were not planning to ask anything of your underwear you do not ask of yourself. Control-top hose contains Spandex, a synthetic fiber developed by bored and irritable Nazis. The function of the Spandex is to round up fat wherever it is hiding and shoot it out the top of the hose. The effect is that of a billowing flesh fountain on a nylon pedestal, and gosh–ain’t that the look we were going for, ladies? Comfy, too. It takes five minutes to argue them all the way up to your waist, but sadly, fifteen minutes later, the tights have retreated to new ground quite a bit south of ideal. Enforcing a waddling gait, the crotch is now hanging six inches below your own, and no, you have nothing to fill that space up with. Not unless you have explosive powder.
Whilst sitting this morning and awaiting yet another reboot of Loretta's computer, to which I was administering software tonics, my gaze fell upon one of the many books of historical research that are concomitant to her work. This one, "The History of Underclothes", at first glance appeared to offer opportunities for stimulating review. However, upon closer inspection it was revealed to be quite scholarly in nature and contained very few pictures that would be considered in the slight revealing. However, there were many interesting details to be found, including the following excerpt which, I trust, will lead to a general feeling of thankfulness among the fairer sex of their present day existence, the advantages of modern fabrics and the relaxed social attitudes that now permit the wearing of every manner of underwear, albeit some more appealing than others to both the wearer and those observing. Regarding corsets of the period 1791-1820 this book reports that, "To apply effectively the new short stay a mother is advised that her daughter should lie face down on the ground so that, by having a foot in the small of the back, the mother can secure a firm purchase on the laces." I would not have any personal knowledge of such matters, but could a thong be worse than this?
I like to call those "London Bridge pantyhose" — always falling down.
It's like 18th-century OSHA, Walt–they just don't want Mom to strain her back. I will say, though, that I recall wearing my pants so tight as a young teenager that I had to lie down to get them zipped up. On one of the last days of high school, I saw Sarah Karrick rockin' some baggy pants (unthinkable!) and I never looked back.
My husband laments the fact that I don't often wear skirts or dresses anymore. Not because I looked ravishing in them but because he misses watching me do what he called the chicken dance while trying to pull on tights or nylons. Frankly, I don't miss it at all.
That gal in blue needs a postal-sized purse, that's all. Rosemary
Best one yet Murr! Couldn't stop laughing. So glad that I'm "not alone" in my hatred of all things underpants. But gotta have 'em. Just to be civil I guess.
Do you know the Muffin Top, the muffin top, the muffin top? Your description of the physics of control top pantyhose is spot on. All that flesh has got to go somewhere.
The crotch hanging six inches below yours is the WORST. As a result I don't own pantyhose or even tights. I just tough it out with skirt, boots, legwarmers, and by Easter if the rare urge to wear a frock hits me, I figure I'll get away with bare legs. Haven't been fined by the Underwear Police yet.
As intriguing and amusing as this post it, I am most taken by the gecko stencil on your laundry room wall. I suppose I should have expected it, but it's a nice surprise anyway.
xoxox
jz
Laugh, laugh, giggle, chuckle, sigh…a great post as usual..I will never ever thing the praithes for a thong. And the best use I've found for pantyhose so far is as a temporary fan belt.
Julie, LInder made that for me. You'll have to come visit to see all the other art.
Our wise grandmothers wore bloomers – those aptly named 100% cotton garments that could also be used as a sail in an emergency. I can hardly see to type this as the tears of laughter obscure my vision, not to mention the coffee dripping out of my nose.
For the record: men's ups ride down. Ask the plumber. I noticed the geckos too – geckos in your house are good luck.
That's the most accurate description of tights I have ever read.
I am killing myself; falling out of my control tops and waddling along with a swing-gate while the crotch of my tights frowns. Yup they're frown lines down there, but my mouth and my throat and my eyes know just how funny this really is. Thank you!
Laugh, laugh, giggle, chuckle, sigh…a great post as usual..I will never ever thing the praithes for a thong. And the best use I've found for pantyhose so far is as a temporary fan belt.
It's like 18th-century OSHA, Walt–they just don't want Mom to strain her back. I will say, though, that I recall wearing my pants so tight as a young teenager that I had to lie down to get them zipped up. On one of the last days of high school, I saw Sarah Karrick rockin' some baggy pants (unthinkable!) and I never looked back.
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