My Underwear and the Path to Enlightenment

I am convinced my underwear are holding me back from developing a higher level of consciousness.  I recently bought several pairs of the jersey knit and spandex combo panties with no tags thinking they’d be a sure form of comfort.  Turns out, they’re hip-hugging, gut-pinching, inner thigh-squeezing mother f**kers.

I put on a pair of these name brand form-fitting undergarments and felt comfortable in them for about a half an hour.  They were just a twinge annoying when I made my fried egg for breakfast this morning.  They became an issue when I sat down to eat my egg and drink my coffee.  They kept riding up in places they were supposed to cover.  I got so distracted by them that after breakfast I went to my room and traded them in for another pair.  I paced around the house testing out the gray and blue-polka dotted skivvies I pulled from the drawer to make sure they wouldn’t ride up on me before I got dressed.  That’s when I noticed a burnt smell pervading my living room.  I walked in the kitchen to find my skillet was burned and the stove was still on.  I cursed and turned off the stove and mourned the loss of my $30 Organic Green Fry Pan I bought a few months ago at Target.

I tried to get all Zen by rolling out my yoga mat, but by my second down-dog my underwear were jamming into my inner-groin/thigh area.  My puppy thought it was play time and began licking my face and biting my hair as I wiggled and squirmed in the pose and balanced on one hand while I tried to pull out the underwear from my creases with the other.  She also sat in my lap and licked my face while I tried to meditate.  Om. . .lick, lick.  Om. . .lick, lick.  Om. . .and I cut the meditation short because the waist band was cutting into my flanks.

I would have changed into another pair of underwear, but at that moment, my friend texted me and told me she was on her way to meet me.  We had plans to meet at the mall so she could drive me to see her new house she and her husband just purchased.  I texted her a quick, “See you soon!” and went into my room, threw on a pair of khaki shorts and a t-shirt and tennis shoes.  I forgot to brush my teeth.  I threw my hair into a ponytail, and I saw the zit on my chin and mourned the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to do a cleansing scrub before leaving the house.

Before I got into her car, I adjusted my underwear that were now sitting high on my pelvic bones.  She gave me a strange look and I smiled and merely said, “Underwear.”  She laughed and told me I looked cute.  I glanced at her sideways (afraid to turn my dragon breath in her direction) and said, “Thanks.”  It was then that I felt the seam of my underwear pressing into my ass.  The rest of the afternoon went by in a blur and I did my best to focus my attention on my friend and visit with her and her two little boys instead of worrying about the lack of circulation around my middle.

After our lunch, we said our goodbyes.  I went to the department store nearby to exchange a few items and on my way to Customer Service, I saw the underwear section.  I debated on purchasing a few new pair, but decided against it as this was the place of origin for my 5 other pairs of “seamless panties”.  Plus, I had to pee and I didn’t want to use the public restroom.  It notoriously has dribbles of pee and wet toilet paper on the seats, but also I didn’t want to peel off my underwear and massage the indentions they left on my flesh.  That type of deep tissue massage is best done in the privacy of your own home where you can moan and groan to your heart’s content.

I returned home, used the restroom, massaged my thighs and undercheeks and then traded out that pair for another pair or revolutionary underwear technology.  These felt a little better, but I think it was the same mental trick you play on yourself when you kick off a pair of flats that you’ve had your feet crammed into all day only to put on tennis shoes and double knot tie them and hit the ground running for another few hours.

I met another friend in St. Louis for coffee and our weekly writing/critiquing session.  I was more at ease in these panties because I was drinking a chai latte and was in an urban coffee shop where I could be distracted by the crazy guy outside who was listening to music and doing a knee-jerk dance on the side of the street.  I was suffering a little from writer’s block and thought maybe I should’ve worn a thong.  At least that way the wedgie is self-inflicted and therefore an acceptable form of self-flagellation.

Two hours in to our discussion of our writing and the meaning of life in general, I realized I needed to go.  I told my friend it was because I had to go and walk my dog, but it was also because I had to pee again and I felt that I had to do another round of deep tissue massage.  The panty dilemma was creeping up on me again.  Before I got into my car, I casually looked around to make sure I was in the clear before pulling the wedgie out my butt.  That’s when I saw the yellow paper stuck to my windshield.  I had a $15 ticket for an expired parking meter.  I sighed and said, “F**k it,” and pulled the underwear out of my ass before putting the ticket into my purse.

Once home, I patted my dog on the head and raced to my bathroom where I peeled off the butt-numbing, wedgie-wielding, soul-sucking material and massaged my butt and hips.  I let out a whimper as I saw the red indentations.  I vowed that all underwear should be burned like the women who burned bras in the 60s.  I put on my loungewear, sans bra and underwear, heated up a frozen pizza and sighed, “Ohhhhh God. . .”  I sat down on my couch, similar to the Buddha who sat under the bodhi tree of wisdom, and surrendered to the naked truth:  painful panties are the root of all suffering.

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