I am neurotic. I like my things organized and color-coated and everything down to a paper clip to have a home. So naturally I fold my underwear and then stack them neatly on top of all the underwear I hate and loathe entirely but keep around as back-up reserves in case. I like to never have to get to my reserves and I rarely do. But the other day it happened. I tore apart my underwear basket in a panic wondering where all my good Hanes were. Well they weren’t clean and freshly pressed in my underwear basket that was for sure.
As I located a girly floral lace pair reserved for when I have a boyfriend (beginning stages only) I stared in dismay and hatred at the flimsy cotton and lace combo. Is there anything worse than having to resort to your back-up underwear, I thought to myself. No. The answer was a resounding no. There isn’t a damn thing worse.
I put on the dreaded fancy underwear and went about my day.
Now that was a few days ago and I have since done laundry and re-washed all my beloved boyshort Hanes in solid colors with loads of fabric to cover every ounce of my fupa and then-some. Ah happy days are here again.
But today it hit me as I was looking over my underwear supply. It has gotten low somehow. I think some were lost. One pair was slipped off recently when I decided on a whim to take a dip in Lake Michigan on my way home to visit my parents. Still having a long drive to go I put the wet undies behind my seat. I then made the mistake of letting my dad borrow my car.
Here’s the thing about my dad. When I was young and not as hip as I am now, I used to have all sorts of useless shit in my car. I had a fur steering wheel cover, fuzzy dice (don’t you dare judge me) and to top it off all my stations were pre-set to gangsta rap—this was my only form of rebellion in high school, since I spent my free time babysitting and attempting to write romance novels (now you can judge me). When my dad would use my car, he took everything off, including my twelve dozen keychains, bringing it all in the house and leaving it on the counter. He also changed all my rap stations to conservative talk radio.
He did this every time.
Since then I have gotten rid of all things faux-fur related and no longer have pre-sets pertaining to 50 Cent. The last time my father drove my car however, he took my 26.2 and I love Mountains bumper stickers off. He claimed they fell off in the car wash. I knew better.
This time I noticed my usual pile of things Dad found in my car that he found to be unnecessary piled on the counter. But I also noticed that my wet underwear were missing from behind my seat. I knew my dad had done something with these because it pains him greatly to have anything in his car—or mine—besides George Jones CD’s and a large styrofoam cup of diet pop.
I didn’t want to be down one pair of my beloved boyshorts but I couldn’t bear to ask my father what he’d done with my overly large underwear that are made to look like mens boxers. I didn’t want him thinking they were a guys because umm yikes, I don’t want my dad thinking of that ever. But worse, I didn’t want him knowing that those were mine and truly they could easily be misconstrued as mens. I counted it as a loss and said nothing.
So the conundrum I had today was this, I am dangerously low on my Hanes boyshorts. I am also dangerously low on fundage. And Hanes used to offer these splendid underwear in three-packs, but now they can only be purchased in a two-pack, those sly bastards. When I found this out, I was in such a hot rage I almost wrote to them as I was already pained paying $9.99 for three pairs and now I would only get two?! Five dollars a piece for underwear? Who do you take me for, Hanes? A Kardashian?
I mean they really have me over a barrel here, because they are my favorite and I have never loved any underwear so much, but obviously if I am buying my underwear in a plastic package at Target I am not then going home to drink Cristal. I can barely afford coffee, man.
My point with all this ranting over underwear is this simple fact: When did buying a two-pack of Hanes become a luxury I can’t afford?