the Euphuistic Frog

Have you visited the ladies unmentionables section of your local department store recently? I hadn’t… until yesterday. I used to work in clothing, so I had a thong-pipeline to a vendor from whom I could anonymously mail-order bulk undies whenever my dog ran out of pairs to chew on. (I’ve never actually owned a pair of edible or crotchless panties, but my dog would vehemently disagree). Nope, nothing fancy – 100% cotton, black thongs. No frills, no fuss, no muss, no bother. I’m not a frill-girl. I don’t do lace. I don’t do silk or satin. I don’t do $39.95 per pair. I don’t do bras… (trust me, I have little need). Cotton. Black. Thongs. That’s not asking too much, is it?

So, I hadn’t set foot in that section of a department store in some time. But it had been over a year since I left my job in the thong-throng, and my last mail-order thong re-stock was little more than frayed and slack elastic (much to my dog’s dismay), and I decided it was time to suck it up and schedule a visit to Nethers-land. So sprinkle me with fairy-dust and off to Zellers we go – full of happy thoughts of finding cheap cotton thongs to replenish my undie/chew-toy drawer. I suppose I could have opted for Linen and Lace or La Senza, but I had my 11 year old son with me, and to subject him to that kind of feminine obscenity would have been far too much for his pre-teen sensibilities, and he probably would have run out of the store screaming, while desperately trying to claw out his own eyes. As it was, he hovered on the outskirts of the underwear section of Zellers, half hidden behind an aisle display, peeking out occasionally to scowl, sneer and demand that I hurry up. But No Pressure.

I brief-ly (pun intended) glanced at the individually displayed pairs that are typically hung askew and dangling by their g-strings and tags from hangers, but I’m more of a bulk, plastic-wrap kind of girl, so I quickly moved through the racks of overpriced lace and satin to the wall display of multi-pack economy undies. Okay, so there we had bikini-cut, French-cut, hipster-cut, low-rise, high-rise, maternity, granny (not the real name, but you know the ones – they come halfway up to your armpits…) and just about every kind of butt-flap imaginable… but if you’re not in the market for a butt-flap, then you’re basically shit-outta-luck. The only thongs to be had in the store were the frilly ones, dangling precariously on the hangers behind me, boasting much fatter price tags for one pair than for a bulk package of the more traditional butt-covering styles. So I took a deep breathe, admitted that I’m not 25 anymore, and considered that perhaps my ass should actually be covered, and to hell with panty lines. However, I did decide on the low-rise hipster-cut, because I’m still not quite willing to admit that I’m too old for low-rise jeans… and so it was down to size and color.

Size… no women, not even the tomboys and anti-frill activists, such as myself, like to deal with the size issue. But aren’t we fortunate that most undergarment manufacturers are kind enough to compound our humiliation ten-fold by providing size-charts on the back of every product they sell? So if your hips are this big, then you’re a Medium, but if they’re THIS big, then you’re a Big Fat Cow. It’s a special torture. I didn’t know what my hip size was – it’s not something I make a point of measuring and documenting annually – but I had a fairly good idea. So I guessed.

Lastly, the question of color. I was looking for black. It’s easy, it can be sexy, and since I don’t wear white pants, there’s no risk involved. But I’m not that picky – if black was out of the question, I would have gladly settled for plain white too. But NO… in my chosen style and size, there was all of one color selection to choose from – an assorted 6-pack, boasting nauseatingly cheerful shades of peach, pink, orange and floral.

Please just shoot me.

I scoured the shelf, flinging package after package over my shoulder and head, in a feeble frenzy and desperate hope that there was one package of, at the very least, a solid color, but alas, it was not to be. So, it was either change my mind on the style, assume that I was not the size that the chart told me I was, or privately frighten and humiliate myself every time I pull down my pants to pee. Of course, the color choices for the other sizes and styles were no better – just variations of the same theme. Some were green and blue and floral, some were yellow and purple and floral. Floral. FLORAL???

My son was getting ready to start gnawing off his own leg, so I grabbed the damn pink and orange package and managed to get through the checkout with minimal collateral damage, despite the teenaged kid that checked me out (as in rang up my purchase, not grabbed my ass), who was trying painfully and unsuccessfully to not turn an impressive shade of red as he scanned my panties.

And here I sit, a day later, with my ass cheeks going through climate change from the extra layer of fabric, and my butt-crack in major thong-withdrawal, and having to re-locate the leg-elastics every time I get up from my desk (how could I have forgotten that little gem of a perk with traditional panties?), and all I have to say is this: Don’t believe the Size Chart!! No matter what you think you know, no matter what the Corporate Omnipotent Size God’s tell you, PICK THE NEXT SIZE DOWN! Don’t end up like me, with your panties halfway down to your knees while running to catch the bus…

SAVE YOURSELVES!!! It’s too late for me.