OK, whoever invented these string-up-the-patoot underwear should be shot and the idiot designer who decided that crunchy black lace makes a deliciously sexy underwear string should be forced to wear a double-sided metal cheese grater between his/her buttocks for a few days.
I’m a woman ‘of a certain age’ and also ‘of a certain size’, which probably makes a difference in my personal observations. My daughter has been wearing these things for her entire adult life and probably wouldn’t contemplate slipping on a pair of bargain brand hipsters but . . . a friend gave me this pair of black lace thongs as a birthday joke because I said there was no way any manufacturer would bother to make a thong that could double as a Boy Scout pup tent in a pinch, should you be stranded in the woods on a rainy night. Well, guess what? They do.
I realize one must slowly become accustomed to wearing these (there’s a steep learning curve, trust me), but because I was too lazy to go downstairs to the laundry room to get a clean pair of tightie whities out of the dryer and I’m too uptight to go without at least something between me and my khaki cotton slacks, I have to pay the piper. Now I remember why those blasted things were at the very back of my underwear drawer.
Here are just a few of my issues:
1. No woman my size has any business letting her buttocks flap freely in the breeze.
2. If they're going to make them in my size, why do they assume that my belly is the same size, shape, and tautness as a 14-year-old girl? A hanky-sized, diaphanous 'V' doesn't cut it, babe. Slice me off a hunk of heavy canvas and stitch some (a lot of) Spandex into it, OK? May the Force be with me.
3. It's frigging impossible to tuck fat rolls into a string.
4. I keep hearing a funny 'gggssffftt gggssffftt' when I walk. It must be the crunchy lace being slowly pulverized – seriously, freely swinging hams can exert a lot of pressure.
5. Sitting is uncomfortable, too – Little Rosie is puckered out from trying to escape the ravages of sexy black lace. The poor thing is performing inadvertent Keigel exercises all by herself, which I suppose is good in a way . . . perhaps I’ll be able to ignore the Depends aisle in the grocery store from now on. A simple urge to sneeze won’t make my eyes bug and send me dashing for the nearest bathroom stall. . .
I'm going Commando this afternoon. The scrap of black lace – or what’s left of it – will be in the garbage can of the closest bathroom in my office. Little Rosie will thank me and my buttocks won't know the difference.