Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Dear Sexy Underwear

In preparation for Valentine’s Day or S.A.D. (Single Awareness Day) I have written a letter to my favorite pair of sexy underwear.  Don’t worry, this is suitable for work.  My sexy underwear is neither racy nor obscene but probably better suited to a mother of four, trying to come to terms with her perceived “ruined” body.   Let’s read on shall we?

Ahem…. *whips on reading glasses* *imagines its James Earl Jones reading this*

Dear Sexy Underwear,

I must congratulate you on this highest accolade.  I knew you were my sexiest pair, black with a bit of lace around the waist band, when I first laid eyes on you.  Shortly after my 30th birthday party, when my mom slyly handed over a gift bag from Soma Intimates.  Her well-intentioned present to assist me in my laughably non-existent love life.  You were nestled among two seamless, nude-colored everyday bras and multiple pairs of seamless briefs in an array of colors.  I knew you were my sexy pair, because you were black and….well, that’s it really, sorry.

I had earlier dalliances with sexy underwear starting in college when girls, women (?) are encouraged to own their femininity.  I realize now that college students are no-where near adulthood and have yet to mature in an arena where one must suffer for love, money, job-security, friends, etc.  Regardless, I could not resist the siren-call of Victoria Secret and had purchased a frilly pair of underwear and a pair with a keyhole cut-out, just below the navel.

Innocently I wore them as my everyday undies.  The frilly lace quickly giving me butt rash underneath my sweats or jeans.  The key-hole pair did not fare much better as they kept sliding off.  This sexy underwear was meant to be worn, “As seen on TV”.  Lounging all day in bed, eating berries or quietly reading a Kindle.  Brazenly staring out windows overlooking Paris, swathed in translucent window curtains, daring anyone else to be any sexier, right this minute.

So I stuck to cotton boy shorts or briefs.  Don’t even mention a thong to me.  Just don’t. My derriere lacks a pleasing shape to even consider an undergarment so small.  It looks like two hamburger buns smooshed together, you know, the cheap, square-shaped kind.

You, my sexy underwear, are different, featuring some type of silicone ribbing around the leg-holes.  Strangely enough this high tech enhancement made me think about Iron Man.  “This must be what he wears underneath all that armor,” I thought to myself.  What an appropriate litmus test.  If your sexy underwear does not make you feel like Iron Man, then what’s the gosh-dang point?



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