Panties

I hate the word panties- for no particular reason, I suppose. It's just one of those words.

Everyone has one of those words.

Most evenings, during my elementary school years,  after my younger sister, Olivia, and I would finish bathing, we would inform Mother that we were going to “air out.”  We came up with this term on our own. In summary, airing out is a verb in which one does not wear any panties to bed. All we wanted was freedom of the south and our bedtime ritual of trying to make one another say the word “shit.” We knew better than to use curse words but this game made life daring. After our parents tucked us away for the night, the dirty game would begin. I would say “Shhhh” and Olivia would tag onto my verbal proclamation and say “IT!” This stupid game would continue back and forth for hours until one of us would accidentally blurt out the word. We would laugh obnoxiously, say our prayers and go to sleep as young rebels- commando juveniles having seeped out “shit.”

As an elementary school attendee,  I felt pity for classmates and their Fruit of the Loom underwear peeking out of their blue jeans. What poor idiots. In my opinion, there is nothing worse than visible undergarments. Like being nude in public or the time my mother brought generic, Walmart brand brownies to my classroom Halloween party- unannounced undies were, and still are, my worst nightmare.

In class, I would sit and stare at the unaware kid’s exposed goods for hours. Passing an informative courtesy note, folded in the shape of underwear would have been a sly, creative gesture. But I wouldn’t dare point out the profanity. I could risk showing my own buried treasure as I maneuvered, passing on the message of failure. Instead of helping a fellow undergarment wearer out, I seared the image of visible underwear into my brain so that I would never forget to do the “push and tuck” in pursuit to reduce my chances of being caught up in a similar situation. Upon sitting, I would push my underwear bulge down into my jeans and then carefully tuck in my shirt to prevent any chance of exposing myself. The push and tuck was a genius move. I offered instructional “how-to” pamphlets during recess- but only to my dearest friends. I contemplated coining the phrase but at nine years of age, my finances and general knowledge of the business world could not support the preliminary steps.

When necessary during conversation, I replace the word “panties” by using others such as “underwear” “undergarments” “intimate things” “the thing that covers my Nicki Minaj.” Any word will do- just not “panties.”

I don’t have a strange fetish or fear of panties. I was not punished as a young child by organizing my grandmother’s outdated underwear bin or forced to wear the same pair of my own personals for a week straight without proper wash and sterilization. It is just one of those words. Everyone has one of those words.

My selective lingerie lingo does not neglect the fact that panties play a significant role in my life. After all, I am a female and panty use is inevitable. Like showering and vacuuming- one can always go without the two for several days. But if neglected for a long period of time, things can get messy.

There are many types of panties in the world, for which I am grateful. With such a style variety, verbalizing the hated term is rare. The classic brief, the French brief, boy shorts, bikini cut, hip-hugger, the cheeky, the V-kini, the edible, and one must never forget the thong. Oh the thong. A particle of fabric with a stigma that all mothers must one day let go of, allowing their curious teenage daughters to wear and experience it’s possibilities.

Before losing my thong virginity and comprehending the syntax of the “Thong Song,” I was perplexed at how an undergarment could be considered so risque -so mature and seldom spoke of in a business and/or personal setting. Owning a pair of thong underwear is like having a bottle of cheap vodka stashed in your closet under the stack of sweaters you wear only on occasion. Like some secret only neglected 1950’s housewives had knowledge of due to long days of loneliness and excessive intake of cleaning chemicals. Around 11:30 AM it would be time to sneak off to the closet and take a swig. As if their innocent and sober nature escaped the first time they said “Have a nice day, Honey” while the husband skipped out the front door, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. I do realize it was just underwear, not the start of an alcohol dependency problem.

To me, the thong was a much safer choice. A secret housewives club I could be a member of.  A thong kills two birds with one stone- minimal fabric and slight chance that my underwear would show in school or during church communion. What a deal! How could my mother not understand that there were nasty boys at school who found humor and excitement upon seeing a female's secret stash of cloth? A thong was the safe choice. Like a seatbelt while driving in the rain or the birth control pill.

As a middle school girl, I finally felt it was the time to request thong wearing privileges. But Mother declined my thong request. She explained that a thong is too sexy and I was not of appropriate age to be wearing something so alluring. Still, I was in disbelief of such an exaggerated reputation for something no one would even see.

Then, one night, while watching a mature television program, I saw something.

Something that confused the hell out of me.

In a tacky, made for TV film, teenage girls were strutting down a high school hallway and, to my extreme horror, had their thong straps pulled up as high as possible above their jeans. It was obvious they were showcasing their morning Vodka ritual for all to see. In fact, they wanted to share the Vodka and get everyone drunk- including the underage Freshman. My shocked pubescent mind had no idea where to turn.

I had to come up with a plan and that plan could no longer involve thong underwear. God only knows what mother thought of me after my thong inquiry. Probably thought I was on the fast track to becoming a lady of the night or worse, a Victoria’s Secret model. Her increased dose of blood pressure medication now made sense.

I then became even more obsessed in making sure my underwear was never exposed. Middle School popularity was not a luxury during my pre-teen years and I had to do whatever I could to protect my underdeveloped, underfunded reputation from becoming a laughing target.

The first idea I tested was simple and obvious. I would not wear any underwear at all- commonly known today as “going commando.” If nothing was hiding, nothing was discovered. For two weeks I floated from class to class, finding comfort in knowing that I would reveal nothing as I took my seat.

Oops I dropped a pencil.

Nothing to see here you perverts!

Raising my hand to answer Mrs. Hetman’s questions about the Scarlet Letter would no longer cause anxiety. I was the teacher’s pet once again. Glory be.

My relief was disrupted one afternoon as Mother entered my bedroom with my clean laundry.

“Where are all your panties, Shanda? I didn’t wash any of them.”

Good Lord. She said the word. Quick. Think.

“Well, I know how much laundry five kids can pile up so I decided to ease up the load for ya by washing my undergarments in the washtub. I figured Pa could use the extra money for a chicken coop down yonder. You know how much little Mikey likes to eat these days. He's a growin' boy, Ma.”

We had been learning about the great depression in History class. Something I learned in the public school system had finally come in handy.

Unfortunately, this tactic got me nowhere. Mother saw my willingness to help ease her maternal duties as one that should be awarded. She also thought I was beginning to struggle with personal identity crisis, confusing myself for a young southern girl living in the 1920’s. The following day I was gifted a package of 24-count high waisted panties, similar to those worn by geriatric nursing home patients. Mother received them from the donation center of our church outreach program. As a pastor's wife, she was always awarded cream of the crop when it came to materialistic donation items and leftover potluck dishes. She was VIP in church functions for the rest of eternity. This unopened package of panties was my personal great depression.

Eventually, I received permission to wear a pair of thong underwear. Twas the night of my Freshman homecoming. Lucky for me, mother found pity in the display of a thick panty line in my black, sleeveless dress and made an exception.

After wearing the string for an hour during the dance, my intense fear of being caught mid-wedgie pull was born. I decided to devise a tactic that would make my consistent wedgie pulling unnoticeable and create instructional pamphlets and distribute them to all my thong wearing friends. Coincidentally, I was enrolled in the “Introduction to Business” class and entrepreneurship was next up on the syllabus.