I recently read an article that said thongs are on their way out and cotton granny panties are making a comeback. I can’t imagine why.
Personally, I think that thongs are, like, the way to go. Like most of my 40-something friends, I find wearing cooking twine instead of traditional underwear to be almost as enjoyable as having dental X-rays or having suspicious moles removed.
And I’m also worried about this latest fashion development because if they are phasing out thongs, what will they declare obsolete next? Metal corsets? Powdered wigs? Hoop skirts?
To be honest, up until a couple of years ago I thought thongs were the shoes you wear to the beach, which is what we called them when I was a kid. I only realized my mistake when, while packing up sunscreen and towels, I told my daughters not to forget to bring their thongs, and that I was already wearing mine.
The only other time I’ve ever seen them look that scared was when they found the “How Puppies Are Born” picture book in a box full of tag sale stuff at my sister-in-law’s.
But, really, when you think about it, it’s essentially the same principle. Except, of course, instead of plastic wedged uncomfortably between your first and second toes, it’s scratchy fabric wedged uncomfortably between … well, anyway, the good news is that I am already in style.
Most of my underpants already fall into the granny-panty category and if, for the sake of fashion, I have to get rid of my extensive thong collection, I’m sure I can find a spare snack bag to hold them all. And I won’t be sorry either.
I wasn’t sorry when low-rise jeans fell out of favor. In fact, I was ecstatic to donate them after years of going out in public looking like a half-popped can of crescent dough and worrying that every time I bent over to pick something up, I was making history by televising another lunar landing. One small bend for woman, one giant crevice exposed to mankind.
Now I’m told that “Mom” jeans are back in style. When, exactly, did they go out? And what does that even mean? I have to assume, based on the name, that they are somewhat harried-looking, over-worked, under-appreciated, and on occasion they wet a tissue with their tongue to wipe something off your face. I probably won’t wear them.
I guess anything, however, is better than the trend I recently learned about called “Vajazzling.”
Operating under the same premise as that TV BeDazzler gizmo which decorates your favorite pair of jeans with beads and jewels, this spa treatment apparently embellishes something else entirely, and it has nothing to do with denim.
I can tell you that most days I don’t even feel like wearing earrings, let alone sporting a complete disco ball display under my clothes. But it would be worth doing once a year just to give my gynecologist a little break in the regular action. Before starting I could announce loudly, “And now for something completely different!” Or, “I seem to have developed this unusual rash, can you take a look?”
But that’s unlikely. I barely made it through an embarrassing bikini wax recently.
First of all, it hurt so much that I screamed like an elementary schoolgirl in the middle of a dodge ball match. I couldn’t even look when it was done, fearing that instead of hair removal, I’d just undergone a skin graft without anesthetic and was in need of immediate medical attention.
More importantly, it was administered by the same woman who’s been painting my nails for the last 10 years. I realized afterward that once the line between trimming cuticles and pouring burning wax on the inside of someone’s legs and then ripping it off with duct tape has been crossed, there’s really no going back.
She still paints my nails, but neither of us makes eye contact.
That’s all right. Now that granny panties are back in vogue, there’s a lot less visible real estate for me to worry about and I won’t need to do that again for a while. And if I want to go to the beach, instead of a swimsuit, I can just wear shorts — and my thongs of course.
Sarah Lemire 