Should’ve gone with the thong
Ahhhhh… the switch from spring to summer. The shining sun chased by storm clouds, followed by more sun, whipping wind, more clouds… and palpable humidity.
I eschew humidity. I seek out shade. I slather on sunblock 50. When the humidex rises and my sun-worshipping friends bask in its oppressive heated blanket of ick, I morph into a tantrum-throwing Tasmanian Devil in a human suit.
Having the good fortune to work in an air-conditioned environment where the humidex can’t torment me, I don’t usually gird up with full on biker shorts for work. I consider a thong under my dress, but worry that the length of my skirt, combined with any unplanned bending over will have my caboose on display for all and sundry.
I opt for slightly more coverage and pull on a pair of plaid boyshorts under my cotton dress. I thank the fashion gods that the cotton of the dress is thick enough that I don’t have to worry about the added layer of a slip. I do, however, pat my inner thighs down with some ‘just-in-case’ baby powder, but figure it won’t be an issue for my four-hour shift at cash.
What I don’t consider is the cotton-on-cotton friction between the undies and the dress that occurs sans slip. Walking into the store, I feel those undies begin to travel south of my hips. By the time I clock in, the store’s security cameras have witnessed me adjust my plaid panties a dozen times. As I make my way up to cash, my cheek coverage has convinced my crotch coverage to develop the ability to dematerialize through my inner thighs.
In the no-man’s land between the associates’ lounge and the cash, my panties no longer cover ANY of my nether regions. Not my ass, and more alarmingly, NONE of my lady bits. Instead, the cotton panties form a narrow band of fabric, precariously perched mid-thigh. Mid-thigh – a good six inches from my cooch.
Those mind games where you kick around which superpower you would have? My go-to of “Fying – obviously,” has morphed into the ability to shoot silicone out of my wrists to give my underwear much-needed sticking power.
I cozy up to the Ladies’ Plus rack of short sleeved shirts and surreptitiously adjust my gitch. One side. The other. Other than the security cameras which, I’m sure, are wondering what I’m trying to shove up under my skirt, no one seems to be the wiser.
Clenching every muscle from knee to hip, I resemble a robotic supermodel on quaaludes as I ever-so determinedly walk back to the associates’ lounge. I grab two safety pins from my bag. Surprisingly, I only yelp once as a pin comes undone and jabs me in the hip. Blood loss is minimal and does not require me to fill out an incident report for the Health and Safety Committee.
Should’ve gone with the thong.