Saturday, July 10, 2004

There's a tendency for alien underwear to creep into my collection now and again, usually my mother's, who used to buy the same Hanes as I did and which created all sorts of awkward, cringeworthy problems. (I've long since acquired a large distinct batch and defined clear borders, so I may return to my usual habit of grab-and-go.)

So when a few days ago I was weeding out old, ill-fitting, high-waisted undies -- which bunch up in a somewhat unsightly manner over my current styles of pants -- out of a crammed drawer, I wasn't all too surprised to find a batch of pretty, lacy panties. They were clearly not mine, I thought, as I shovelled aside a pile of practical white cotton, but I was fairly certain I knew whose they were.  

"Moooooooooom!"

My mother was watching her soap operas. "What?"

I held up the handful. "Your stuff."

"They're not mine. They're yours."

"Huh?"

"Remember? That one shopping trip when you said you wanted to try something different and be feminine?"

"Uh..." But blue and violet lace? Impressionistic flowers? Ribbed edges? Black baroque lace? This was getting too sexy for my stodgy ways; did I know this supposed Gloria? Then ... "Oh. Oh. Yeah. Jeez."

I stared, still flabbergasted. I had underwear I didn't even know were mine. I suppose as I grow older, this will become a more frequent occurrence (hopefully...?).

Well, at least they were surprisingly comfortable.

(For some reason, even though most of my upper undergarments are black, most of my lowers are white. Eh? Strangest of all is that I like to co-ordinate even my socks when I am able; how have I so long tolerated this discrepancy?)

Now I face every female's worst nightmare -- I have these fancy skivvies (other synonyms for "underwear" include but are not limited to: bikini, bra, briefs, BVD's, corset, drawers, intimate things, jockey shorts, jockeys, lingerie, long johns, panties, shorts, smallclothes, underclothes, underclothing, undergarment, underpants, undershirt, underthings, undies, unmentionables, woollies), yet nowhere to wear them. Alack!

posted at 4:55:50 pm

Rocker
July 11, 2004   11:34 PM PDT
 
I don't know why but that entry just made me laugh. I hate when I lived at home and I always wound up with my little brothers socks and my little sisters Powerpuff Girls undies mixed in with my laundry.
Saladin
July 10, 2004   09:57 PM PDT
 
I'm sure you can find some upscale society ball to which you can rightly wear your flowery undies. And, with some luck, I will be able to attend whilst wearing a monocle. What I'd give for a monocle, let alone somewhere to wear one... I guess I'll just have to settle for a walrus wearing a tophat.
Sinister Ninja
July 10, 2004   01:46 AM PDT
 
I hate getting other people's underwear in my laundry. I was doing laundry about two weeks ago, and some girl put her panties in my dryer with her phone number in them. I removed said panties with a straw and threw them out.

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Glo'ri'a'na, noun:
1. An alternative form of "Gloria."
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.


   



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