I know Victoria's Secret

Since some people, who I won’t name, but who sometimes answer when you call “Kati” finds great amusement in my nana chones, I decided to branch out; to go where my booty has never gone before, to trade in my gigantic cotton drawers for something more…less than.

But the thing is; I’m also HELLA cheap when it comes to things that I’m just going to throw away in a month or so. So while the Gestating Mrs. Smooth spent $50 to swath her nether regions when we were shopping this weekend, I spent MY lunch money on bras. And by my lunch money I mean $100. BUT I saved $100, because it was buy 2 get 2 free and at $50 each a girl needs to make sacrifices right? So while the twins are enjoying their new digs, my heinie was feeling a bit neglected.

And that just won’t do, because I’m exceedingly vain. (I’m sure you hadn’t noticed though.). In my vanity, though, I believe in equal opportunity. Fat, white, and vain all over; that’s me. But I digress.

Chones, like bras are a BIG DEAL to shop for. It’s not like jockey shorts where every pair is pretty much like the last. My lady bits need comfort and breathability. Not to mention I hate tight leg holes and exposed elastic. Also, they need to be pretty. And not give me a wedgies. And they should match with my bras because WHAT IF I’M IN AN ACCIDENT? My Gram made it exceedingly clear to us girls when we were young and impressionable that good underclothes were a sign of good breeding and GOD FORBID you were wearing that pair that is always left on laundry day because if you’re in an accident, they might not treat you and you will DIE. All because you are wearing sagged out faded skivvies with stretched out elastic and a wee little hole where they got caught in your zipper that one time when you had to cop-a-squat in the bushes during OzFest.

The stress was almost too much. I had a quick meeting with the Crown and braced myself to gird my loins. Bravely, I strode into that French Store and marched into the “Intimates” department. (Side note, since WHEN do pajama pants and socks with kittens qualify as “Intimate Apparel”? I’m pretty sure NO ONE gets “intimate” offers while wearing giant green knit pants with frolicking puppies on them.) But I am undaunted! I am determined! Nevermore will I do my impression of Mary Katherine Gallagher in the gyno’s office.

I WILL BE SEXY, goshdangit.

The problem with this of course is the sheer number of choices.

Do I want hipsters? Ew. NO. Next thing you know, I’ll have blue hair and write Emo poetry about my tight, tight pants and angsty-love-drama. Not going down THAT road.

So, then, maybe bikinis? ARE YOU F-ING kidding? Isn’t the whole point of panties to keep my bits safe from zippers and flaming hot car interiors? I’ve seen strippers with more fabric on then those provide. And STRING BIKINI’S? HAHAHA. DUDE. For reals; “String bikini” and “plus sizes” shouldn’t be even THOUGHT OF in the same sentence.

Of course, there are thongs, or as we refer to them around our house, “butt floss”. They’re useful in their own right, so okay. Those I can do. No panty lines…that’s a good idea, right? No reason to advertise my fondness for Hanes Her Way cotton sensibles all the time, is there? In the basket they go.

I’m feeling pretty victorious right about then. I’ve bought underpants that would make my mother avert her eyes and cause my father to say “SIIIIGGGGHHH” really loudly and then proclaim his ill luck for have spawned “girl children” if I ever were to mention them in his presence (actually, any mention of underwear in my fathers presence causes his beard to go one shade whiter.)

Can you wear thongs everyday though? Won’t you like, get a butt rash in the summer from the swamp-ass that goes unchecked by cottony goodness?

Seems dangerous.

And not GOOD dangerous, either. Bad dangerous. Fondle a baby bear in Mama-Grizzlies sight dangerous. EAT FOOD FROM A STREET VENDER dangerous.

And I? I am not that brave.

I am, however, persistent. So up the aisle I go.

There before me were these super adorable little lacy bits called “boy shorts”. Have you seen those? They’re like boxers, except for girls! And look at that adorable model! She looks so cozy! Very sporty-hot. Casual, yet sexy in a girl-next-door kind of way. YES! That’s just what I’m looking for! SCORE.

Yes, I just said “score!” like it was 1989, what are you going to do about it? I also say “awesome” and “super” like I just escaped from the set of the Brady Bunch and I LIKE IT.

Right, where was I? Ah, yes. Boy Shorts. Okay, so they had about 11,000 different brands, colors, fabrics, sizes, patterns, elastic/no-elastic and so on permeations. This, people, is why girls never do anything alone. WE NEED INPUT. The comfort of our secret selves is of UTMOST importance, am I right? There is just no way I am going to spend all day yanking at my undercarriage. That just won’t do.

I soldier on.

Into the cart goes a pair labeled “low rise boy briefs in NEW stretch lace”. That sounds good right? Low rise means they won’t hang out of my ever expanding collection of gap-waisted jeans. Stretch lace; that sounds practical, yet attractive. I’m feeling pretty good about it now. The cotton, though, oh damn you comfy, comfy cotton. Into the basket goes a pair of sensible black cotton ones.

I rush right home and wash them; even though it’s not laundry day yet, won’t be laundry day for about 4 more months. Carefully, I fluff them dry and fold them neatly.

Oooh! I am so excited!

No longer will I be hindered by the Hindenburg of lingerie! I am TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. A fashionable, DARING, leaf. A leaf that will lead to OTHER leaves and next thing you know? Featured guest of Oprah.

First thing this morning I hop into the shower. Which pair will I wear? They better look good bronzed for the museum in my honor, I’m thinking. I select those sultry black stretch lace low rise goodies.

Gently, I slide them up over my hips, pausing to admire myself in the mirror. HELL YES! My ass looks FANTASTIC. I almost repeated the ass-photography exercise; I was so impressed with it. (Y’all can stop covering your eyes; I wouldn’t do that to you.)

I whistle my way through getting dressed, slip on my favorite jeans, step into my super cute brown heeled sandals, arms up and into a flirty summer top, comb the hair, on with the make up and I am SO FUCKING HOT I want to kiss myself.

Oh, but then.

You knew there would be a “but, then” didn’t you? Because there always is.

I am half way to work. It is already 100* at 7:30am.

And where are my precious lacy-bits?

UP MY DAMN ASS.

That’s right; they are wadded all the way up there like I am the Tri-State third-grade math champ.

Out of the truck and I’m doing the wiggle. You know the wiggle? That little half side step shimmy where you clench and unclench in a (futile) attempt to avoid having to go cave diving right in front of the boss? The wiggle that NEVER, EVER works?

Right.

Of course, I am NOTHING if not stubborn, so into the loo I go and fish those bad boys out and realign them. By the time I’ve made it to my office, my grandchildren are tasting polyester flowers.

By lunch time, I can floss my teeth with them. From the inside.

At two, I give up. Back to the ladies and off with the instruments of torture.

Lucky me, though, I listen to my Gram. In addition to her edicts that we should all own red bras (in case we need to flag a train), she also mandated that we have a ready supply of fresh panties to hand. So out to the truck and into the gym bag I go, happily retrieving enough melon-colored cotton to block the sun from shining in Africa.

I guess this is why my mother always told me to never give into peer pressure.

So, Miss Kati, mock away. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll be go to hell if I’ll give up my granny panties.