My borgoise underpants.
Yes, this is a metaphore for my underpants. Back when life was grand, I'd spend like... a bunch of money every month on clothes. I had an EXTENSIVE collection of underpants. Sometimes, I even had bras to match. Now the bras are too big (why is the boobage always the first place "it" leaves one?), the cute pair of green and blue underpants melted at the laundromat (who'd have guessed that could happen?) and the cute pink underpants with stars on thars are looking a little grey thanks to the wonder that is this borough's crappy water (the excess minerals are "added features," don't you know?). The rest are less elasticy than they used to be. The purple pair with the embroidery on them (yes, I own embroidered underpants. leave me alone.) are getting a little worn and unraveled. My "other" purple pair, deemed the comfiest panties in the entire universe are getting little runs in them, and the elastic is losing it's, well, elasticity.
Basically, the underpants need to be replaced.
But, see, there's this thing. I'm going to school (and paying out-of-pocket for my third class), and we're trying to save some money to visit the in-laws in KS, so I don't have money for fancy-pants underwears. At first, I just kept putting off the underwear buying. They're kind of expensive... but most of mine are too big. I REALLY haveta watch which ones I wear with skirts, otherwise they're gunna be falling down around my ankles like in that Colleen McKenna book, and I'll haveta kick them off (story that has stayed with me because the author spoke to my class the year the book came out and informed us that said incident really DID happen to her, but another story for another time). The rest are either threadbare, or too big AND threadbare. And yes, Internet, I know you care about my underpants. Because you FEEL MY PAIN like Slick Willie at a DNC fundraiser. BTW, I will tell you what you will feel, and when you will feel it, and just how much you will feel.
Moving right along... I've come to a point where waiting out the panty poorness is just no longer an option. And I thought to myself... I can go to walmart and get some cottony Hanes underpants... heck, they even have pretty colors and patterns, unlike when I was a kid, and your choices were white, white and more white, even if it was that time of the month, because black underwear, or grey with little prints was, like, too expensive, or something. Mom had some lame reason.
Which, ok, whatever. Underwear are underwear, I suppose. You wear them under clothes. And unless your pants're riding low, no one sees them (see previous entry) so I guess I can live with *gulp* cotton underpants. Even if they're not shiny and pretty and feel nice on my naked bottom. I guess I can break down, and buy a threepack like the rest of the proletariat.
I'll just have to call my mother and have her explain to me the way sizing works on non-pretty underwear. I recall them having some kind of strange numbering system that actually had nothing to do with trouser size. How plebeian. Oh to feel crisp imitation silk , rayon underpants against my flesh once more! Yes, I yearn for that day to return!
My poor silky soft asscheeks. I can hear them bitchin already, and I haven't even allocated funds in the budget to be earmarked for future underpants expendatures.