My taste in underpants tends to run in phases. Freshmen gym and joining my first sports team inspired me to trade in my Underoos for more stylish underpants. My favorite pair were baby blue and featured little cows and the words “Oh la vache!” all over them. The ballet company and its backstage quick changes introduced me to the thong and all the flexibility it afforded. In college, dance classes meant I spent half my life in thongs and sports bras, but on weekends I insisted on wearing matching bra and panties, preferably bought in sets. And over the last couple of years, my taste has waned a little. Sure, I always pick out cute underpants in pretty colors and patterns, but they come in a five-pack from Walmart. And if I’m sporting yellow and orange polka dotted underwear and a burgundy bra, it’s no big deal. Honest to god, as long as they’re both clean, who cares what color they are?
But recently I decided that I deserve better. We all know that I’m passionate about my Victoria’s Secret bras. Clearly, I take care of my girls, and it’s time my bum got the same special treatment. So it was time to trade my slightly dingy, clearly worn, Plain Jane underpants in for something a little more luxurious. From underpants to panties. Victoria’s Secret was running a special of 7 pairs of panties for $25. I’ve got a couple pairs of theirs thanks to their Free Pantie coupons and I adore them. Perfect.
So I went and I picked out a couple pairs of hipsters, a couple pairs of bikini cuts, all very cute. Fun heart-shaped buttons, dainty little bows, ruching, contrasting colored trim, stripes, leopard, dots. Kyle gave his approval, yet I was able to wear them to work and they were super comfy. Love, love, love.
Until I went for my morning three-mile run. And those darling little panties bunched themselves together and burrowed themselves halfway to my intestines. I spent the first half of my run doing this odd little hop-step-wedgie-pick in a futile attempt to keep my underpants out of my ass. Finally I just gave in, accepted their place in my crack, and finished my run. The next day, same story. Five steps in and ZOOM, they climbed right back up into my bum. Rather than try to fight it, I attempted to leave them be and ignore them, with some success. I definitely wished they weren’t there, but compared with my burning lungs and tired legs they were small potatoes. Manageable.
Which brings us to The Great Pantie Debate. I love my stylish new panties. They’re fun and pretty and they put a smile on my face every time I pee. They’re super duper comfy and totally practical in every aspect of my life. Except when I run. So is it worth it? Do I keep sporting my pretty panties, knowing that I will forever run with a wedgie? Or do I return to my Walmart specials, which, though totally unglamorous, stayed out of my ass 98% of the time? (With the remaining 2% being when Kyle thinks he’s funny and sneaks up behind me and gives me wedgies. God, I love that man…) Is the happiness they give me worth the discomfort?
I don’t know. I guess it’s something to pick at.