panty snob

The Man and I went on a shopping expedition this weekend.  Our prey was a cheap pair-o-sunglasses for the Man ‘cause it’s getting sunny and nice here.  And our balcony looks at the setting sun, so without shades, it’s difficult to open your eyes.

We ended up at one of those gloriously generic stores that are overly popular with teenage girls that match their baby pink shoes to their baby pink belt to their baby pink baby-t shirt to their baby pink headband– coordination overload, and gay men.  Correction: gay men still trying to persuade themselves that they are straight.  No, we weren’t at Abercrombie and Bitch, but close. 

As soon as we walked in, we were greeted (oh WHAT would we do without a greeting? by a greeter, oh the importance!) by an overly coordinated, faux-vintage teen who informed us that they were having an underwear sale.  The underwear are like, this much, for like, this many, and like, that totally means they are like, this much a piece!  Sweet.  I’ve been whining to the Man about how I’m in dire need of panties.  I’d voyage out on a panty search only to return home, a broken failure, neglecting to find panties that I could buy.  After being informed of this, like totally awesome sale, I responded (with my usual, non-committal) “Sweet.”  That was followed up the by Man offering to help me pick some out.  He’s so sweet.

Normally, I’d never even look at the panties at this store.  I’d never even go into this store, but you only live once.  We did find some great shades for the Man there, and while leaving, we stop by the panties to see if I could find some.  As I’m walking through, I say to him “Ugh, no.  I don’t wear cotton panties.  These are all cotton.”  We leave.  End of panty shopping.

In my younger years, as in a year and a half ago, I would wear my panties once.  One time.  Now this wasn’t on purpose.  This is what would happen: Fleur goes panty shopping.  Fleur buys lots of panties.  Fleur wears new panties.  Fleur goes panty shopping.  Fleur is wearing her new panties.  Fleur buys more panties.  Fleur has too many panties.  Fleur throws away some panties.  Fleur goes panty shopping.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

I am such a consumer.

A while after I became a non-single bachelorette, I gave up this frivolous habit.  Gone cold turkey, now I never buy panties.  But, what I didn’t realize until I entered the store with the, like, totally awesome sale was, I am a panty snob.  What I spoke is the truth.  I don’t wear cotton panties.  They don’t maintain their shape, they fade, they are thick and lead to horrible panty lines, and they look nasty after a few washes.  I don’t like nasty panties.  What happens if I’m hit by a car and they have to cut off my clothes to save my live?  I don’t want them seeing nasty cotton drawers!  All dingy and misshapen.  Gross. 

Which is why I have such a difficult time finding panties.  I don’t want crazy panties.  They need not be lace and ribbon with bells and bows and come scented with lavender and embedded with special lady-part lotion.  They do have to match my bras, but my massive melons only fit into bras made of structural steel and titanium.  And those bras, which are sometimes mistaken for fabric suspension bridges, usually only come in black, white and that unnaturally color labeled ‘nude.’  

But I should expand my horizons.  There are people in some countries that don’t even get to chose their panty fabric, let alone crazy designs and colors.  I should just be happy I can wear a different pair everyday.

So.  My name is Fleur.  I am a panty snob.  Today is my first day of non-snobbiness.  I will try not to shun cotton.