After a few character crushing replies to this blog and sharing some message board mayhem, Mike had suggested to me that I may be blogworthy. As this is the only blog I frequent, he gave me a general idea of word count but beyond that was left to my own research. As a frantic femme I googled "How do you write a good blog" for instant gratification education. Over 286 million search replies resulted and since I don't have the time to study them all by my 48 hour deadline, I scanned for key phrases: Be yourself, be intimate, be personal, have a good foundation.
Behold, a foray into my intimate personal foundations.
Not actually into them per say but rather to share a few anecdotes on this subject that is so close to us all. It's a universal topic, unless of course you are a nudist, a lifestyle I often fantasize about while I am enduring my weekend laundrythons. Since I live in the wildly undulating and extreme climates of New England, and since I do not have a personal Hollywood special effects team, my brood will continue clothed even through sweltering summer.
As I write, I am unpeeling my legs off my pleather couch, a purchase which seemed like such a good deal from Bob's Discount Damage Room midwinter. A few years back in such summer heat I recall doing the same to my desk chair as worked through the night. Hair piled on my head, fans in the windows, I was agonizingly uncomfortable and frantic to finish. By the time I finished my project I was disconnected from reality and wanted to reward myself for a job well done. So off I went to the all night gas station to meet up with my friends Ben & Jerry.
There I enter the beautiful oasis of corporate funded central air and gravitate knowingly to the corner fridge to study the selection. My eyes move across the colorful array of B & J with all their fun names and combinations. The choice I make, hmm Half Baked. Brownies and cookie dough and ice cream…what could be more indulgent and delicious. And I did deserve it. I had worked so hard.
In my dreamlike state I take my careful selection to the counter and the apathetic attendant assists me. The bells on the door sound as a teenage guy enters the shop. I study him in the reflection of the window behind the counter. I applaud him for giving me personal space, further convincing myself he stands 4 ft behind me in awe of my radiant femininity. I collect my change, give my thanks, and ring the bell as I exit. I encounter a night much cooler than the one I left, motion in the previously still air. I plunk myself down into my seat with a swoosh, and skin touches upholstery. In a place unlike before. I grimace, then grope, and fully note, I am exposed. At some point in the day between my carefully selected white shorts and VPL (visible panty line) evading thong, my pants had ceased to be covering my assets.
So the kind young man behind my behind, I will never know, I hope, but must apologize for whatever he witnessed. And it was at this moment in my life I embraced a truth. "They" were right, be aware of what you wear down there, as you never know when you'll be in an accident, even if that accident is your inexpensive shorts giving in on you. Into the bin went that pants that I was in, and never again did I return to buy my outer or undergarments in a retail store bearing the title words "Bug" or "Barn" or any establishment located in a strip mall or under the same roof as you might also purchase motor oil or macaroni.
As only Marilyn can only tell which way the wind will blow, you must be ready at any moment for your close up. I realize as most you should never shop at Wal-Mart, but I made exception to my clothes purchasing rule as there I have found some silly frillies there that make me smile. In my day to day I dress for desk, and recently wore a somewhat chic shift to work. I felt sophisticated until I realized my floral and peace sign patterned panties were no secret to anyone who might catch me in fluorescent light. Yesterday when I was reflecting on this topic (in a judgment compromising 105 humid day) I wore my "Have a nice day" rainbow bottoms under a knee length skirt. The power of intention won, and there was no updraft up my skirt. While I'm amenable to sharing a smile, I am happy to say I made it across Center Street & Main without any loft.
In my unfailing preparedness for the next occasion my pants split open. I have replaced late night excursions for ice cream for visits to the gym. I first stop in the ladies room to make sure that my clothing has not spontaneously gone threadbare before I employ any challenge that puts my derriere in the air. Last week, as I was holding 15 pound dumbbells and doing single leg dead lifts, I realized I wasn't wearing "gym friendly" underwear till too late. I was fighting some creep as some creep was spying on me. He was employing a lackadaisical effort at his leg presses as he continued to glance in my direction. Taking the opportunity to be enlightened, I told myself that the better for him physically if he found some motivation to work out, and the better for me to remain otherwise focused on my task or I would be tempted to go over and correct him on his form.
At the gym, this objectification by men is not the norm, and further my most cherished accessories while I am attaining my fitness bliss are my iPod and my pink weight lifting gloves, from which I extend pinky out guzzling water between reps. While an annoyance, your panty lines may not be a secret while exercising, and on a similar note I must applaud Victoria for providing us with some structural support. My wardrobe chagrin wins again when I accidentally wear one of their emphatic push up bras under an ace bandage type athletic one, a phenomenon I have coined "Victoria's Xanax", as the girls must contend with such anxiety and confusion.
I'm working on my mindfulness and have to acknowledge that late night mishap for being a healthy moment in my healthy life. A misfortunate wardrobe malfunction can be a source for joy, and as the Buddha would say, "Your body is precious. It is our vehicle for awakening. Treat it with care."