Honestly now, Topanga.

Sometimes I have a hard time understanding what’s okay and what’s not okay.
Let’s backtrack a little bit here.

This morning I noticed a grey hair chilling out on my noggin. Grey hairs tend to freak people out. They are signs of aging, and aging means that we’re mortal, and being mortal means we’re going to die–ashes to ashes, pine boxes, the works. My confession: they don’t bother me. I got my first grey hair when I was twelve, so these little guys are old news to me. Hell, I yank them out when I see them, despite the threat of having “five of their friends come to the funeral” or whatever. If all of my hair were grey, then I wouldn’t have to face my fear of bleaching it in order to go blue.

But then I started thinking about grey hairs, and what they mean in society, and how aging is different for women, and how I recently bought eye cream, and how that is bullshit, and how stupid my hair looks today, and how annoyed I am that the Queen’s visit is causing me to change my study plans, and how I should just blow off the library, and how college hasn’t gotten back in touch with my student loan provider, and how none of the college offices are open today for me to sort that out, and how beets might taste in an omelette, and how it would be weird for me to bring any of this up with anyone because it might make said person uncomfortable, and how simply riding this train of thought to the end of the line has put me in a less-than-stellar mood.

I remembered that I was wearing really nice underwear today, and I felt great. This could just be me, but I think there is some sort of magic that comes stitched into nice underthings. Nobody else needs to know or see them–and that was not an invitation–for them to make me feel good about the state of things.

Related confession: I don’t see why friends can’t buy each other underwear.

I discussed this once with my very patient and obliging roommate. She explained to me that underwear is just one of those things. It’s loaded. Giving a friend underwear is kind of saying, “I would like you to wear this for me.”

I think I understand that. Nice underwear is sexy, and the exchange of sexy-things could potentially blur the line of a friendship in an uncomfortable way. But, other than being a little curious about how a friend got my measurements, I for one would be delighted by such a gift. Sure, there are friends who I would like to buy a little something for in the hopes that they might someday model it for me, but that’s not why I would generally be buying bloomers for someone else. It would be more my way of saying, “Hey, I know how nice I feel when I’ve something nice on underneath, and I would to give you that feeling on days when the world gets you down.”

Let’s lighten the mood with some pictures.
Friends of the world, these are underpants I would like to buy for you.

Undapants!

Undapants! by Liz OT featuring a bra belt

There you have it.

And, fellas, I am sorry that there is so little diversity in your underwear market. I makes me sad inside. Methinks I’ll spend a good portion of my summer tie-dying plain boxers to remedy this problem.

Follower Love-Fest #20: Matt

Matt’s contribution to the double-you-double-you-double-you is his blog, Because I’m Funny Sometimes. And he is sometimes funny. I would warn you, though, dear reader, that Matt hasn’t updated his blog since last summer. Matt, wherever you are, I hope you’re well.

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6 thoughts on “Honestly now, Topanga.

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