Do you ever find you have so many things on your mind that you find it hard to focus on just one? Or even 12?
I haven’t done our taxes yet. I don’t even know where all the forms are that I’ll need. My baby boy needs a tux for prom. Prom is less than 3 weeks away. My floors haven’t been mopped in..well..a long time. There might have still been snow on the ground.
There was definitely still snow on the ground.
That is a sampling. We won’t even start with the in depth way I’ve been internally analyzing Better Call Saul.
So what do I end up fixating on?
I considered, for a disturbing number of minutes, how my underwear has changed over the last 20 years.
Randy and I met 20 years ago. We met in the Spring and by the Summer of 1995 we were living with each other.
Out of all the times I face planted in life, this situation had the makings of a spectacular life fail.
As it turned out, we are good for each other. We spent a lot of years figuring that out and we both bear our scars, but we’re good for each other.
I thought about the underwear I wore when Randy and I were first together and mentioned to Randy that my underwear was so much better back then.
Randy: I remember a pair of your underwear from back then. They were dark blue and kind of lacy.
Me: Yeah, I know which ones you are talking about. You remember those because that’s what I was wearing the first time you saw me in my underwear. They were navy and from Victoria’s Secret. I had a matching bra.
Randy: Those were some tuff ass underwear
Me: I haven’t heard ‘tuff’ used in that context since 1978.
Me: 1978 called. They want their expressions back.
I used to match my bras with my panties. On purpose. I carefully considered each panty purchase. I didn’t just pick up a six pack of cotton ones and, if I did, I would go through each color choice as to avoid the stripes and plaids.
Now? If the package has the ‘6’ crossed out and excitedly tells me there are 7 pairs in that pack, then I am happy. I have no fucks to give regarding whether or not they are stripey or plaid. I’ll even go for the all white granny panties.
This does not mean that I’ve given up. I’ve just reached a stage in life where I’ve worried and obsessed over so many things for so many years that I had to discard some of the lesser concerns. Concern over whether or not my bra and panties matched was given the boot right after worrying about shaving my legs during winter.
I didn’t go suddenly change from bikini and low rise boy shorts to white cotton granny panties. There were others in between.
Oh god, remember when teddies were the rage? I had a teddy. I was 22 years old and worked downtown and I had to have some teddies because that was the underwear to wear. I hated teddies. They would pull up in a most uncomfortable way. I’d shrug my shoulders and my teddy would yank up and chafe the least chafable skin on my whole person.
But I digress.
One year, I broke down and bought some thongs. Holy shit, I am not a fan of the all day wedgie. Still, I had them, but they became the backup underwear. You know, what you wear when laundry has been put off until a dire clean clothes situation.
I rarely wore thongs and after the day my pants disintegrated, I never wore them again.
Around five years ago, I wore my favorite jeans and a thong to work because Randy must have been slacking on the laundry.
Laundry is Randy’s job. My job is to bitch about laundry not being done.
I loved my jeans, they were worn just the right amount, they didn’t bind and I actually liked they way they made my bubble butt look. I had gone out to lunch with some of the tech guys and when we came back, I sat in my cubicle and thought “That’s odd. It seems like I can feel way more of my chair than I should be feeling.”
Instantly, my brain dismissed the possibility that my pants had split as too horrifying to consider.
Turns out, I had no choice but to consider.
My jeans had split vertically over my left ass check. The entire length of my ass cheek. I realize that you have no way of knowing how big that split would be, but trust me when I tell you, it was an impressively sized split.
My actual ass had been touching my chair.
I managed to make it to the bathroom with a sewing kit and stitch up that bitch, but I did not escape without some mental damage. I haven’t worn a thong since. I am unreasonably afraid that if I wear a thong, my clothes might melt off.
Besides, a pair of well fitting cotton granny panties are about as comfortable as underwear gets.
Randy can talk all wistfully about my navy blue Victoria’s Secret panties, but I know he doesn’t really care. Or he doesn’t seem to. Just the other night, as he folded laundry, he wore my clean panties as a hat. He just kept layering them on.
Some were striped and some were plaid.