My husband, on the other hand, loves to shop. Loves it. Lives for it. He's a clothes horse of the highest breed. During college, he worked at several men's clothing stores, and I'm not talkin' The Gap, I'm talkin' stores where the shoes are 400 bucks. So when it comes to clothes, he's got very high standards and knows what he's doing.
So, he decides that he's had it with my pilled Kohl's trousers and my four-year old Steinmart blouses and my Payless shoes. He offers to take me to lunch and shopping on the Friday before July 4th. Shopping? On a day off? Grrr... What sealed the deal is that he offered to take me to lunch (I'm so easily bribable with food) and then, if I still felt okay with it, we would shop. He would hold my hand, offer advice and basically help me get through it. Sounds like tight-rope walking, right?
So, the Friday came. We ate lunch. I couldn't muster up an excuse, so shopping we went.
The first store was The Limited. He was determined to get me into those trendy blank tight-ish pants that basically ever woman in North America owns but me. Funny when you think about it...most guys want to get into your pants, not get you into pants. But I digress...
So I try on these crazy pants...and I like them. And they don't look half bad. And (this is way cool) I wear a size smaller than what I thought. I like this place! I remember thinking.
Here's the rub...these pants don't quite get along with my underwear. I don't wear Granny-panties, I wear fairly standard french-cut underwear, but these pants are having none of that. They demand
So he drags me down to Victoria's Secret, which I discovered later, is suspiciously owned by the same company as The Limited. Hmmm...I smell a conspiracy. I look at all the thongs. Good God - how many types/colors/styles can there be? I select a pair and guess at the size, since I didn't know if it was social acceptable to try on underwear or not.
The following Monday, I excitedly got ready for work and put my new outfit on, thong included. It's not too bad, I remember thinking. Much more comfortable than the thongs I'd had run-ins with in the past. Then I walked down the stairs to get some coffee. Ouch! It kind of pinched. I stood in front of our hall mirror, stuck my hands down my pants and adjusted things. Then checked out my ass. No panty lines. Cool! I walked in to get coffee. Grr... Something was not where it was supposed to be. Actually, let me correct that. Something was where it was not supposed to be. I had a gigantic swatch of cloth between my butt cheeks! What an annoying feeling! Did I buy the wrong size? How do women wear these things? What sacrifices are necessary to be panty-line free? Is this all worth it? Arg!
I calmed myself down and got some coffee. I went to work.
Sometime during the day I realized that I'd forgotten about the self-inflicted wedgie in my nether-region! I could do it. I could wear a thong and be fashionable. Of course, when I got home that night, I immediately took the damn thing off and threw it across the room. And it felt wonderful.
Supermodel I'm not, but I've at last made peace with the dreaded thong.