Lesson 16: Don't Hang Your Big Unds Out to Dry

When I really think about it, Nathan truly brings out the best in me. And when I really, really think about it, I don't give him the credit he deserves. I have come a long way. (Haven't we all?) Let's visit my favorite age. Nineteen. Hot babe. Smokin' bod. Big unds.

Yes, I wore granny panties. Prim. Proper. Practical. In high school, I toted run-of-the-mill cotton panties. Usually all one color. That my mom bought. Got it? Then, nearing the end of my bone-dry boyfriend days of high school, I acquired the at-the-time-boyfriend. Seemed as though at the age of seventeen, with hormones a-ragin', run-of-the-mill cotton panties needed to run off a cliff. So, I did what any girl would do: ran to Victoria's Secret. Sans mom.

I had one goal in mind: patterns. It was time to move away from plain old panties and toward exciting stripes, polka dots, and plaids. I also had to have unds that matched the bras I already had. (Please recall my obsession with matching. To think about wearing non-coordinating bra and panties sets just about makes my teeth itch.) My bra drawer housed braziers in the following hues:

1.) Red

2.) Green

3.) White

About as much as I adore matching, I adore efficiency. Getting the most out of something. Including unds. As I perused the mountains of muff covers at Victoria's Secret, I quickly became privy to the idea of buying one pair of unds that would potentially coordinate with my three bra colors, thus creating three different options...how I LOVE efficiency! As luck would have it, it was Christmastime, so finding unds with even just a hint of green or red or white was no problem. Five pair for twenty dollars. Gray must have been big that season, because that was the next most common color theme. And THAT was a prob. I didn't have a gray bra. But five pair of new unds was certainly not enough to keep the at-the-time-boyfriend guessing. Desperate, I splurged. Fifty buck, a bra, ten pair of (still big) panties later, I felt my first rush of womanly femininity. Its power. Its potential. Its passion.

I liked my new fancy panties. And so did the at-the-time-boyfriend. So I got more. This time, I got really wild and went for tropical colors. I waited for the semi-annual sale, of course, and came home with a sea of aqua, coral, and lemon colored don't-tell-your-mom high-cut-briefs. Evidently, I could have told every mom because they were wearing the same thing. The worthless dryer in my college apartment revealed this horrific truth. As I washed my very dirty fancy panties one day, I soon discovered the dryer didn't, well, dry. No big whoop. I opted to hang my apparently big unds out to dry on the second floor lost banister in our apartment. That year, I lived with five girlfriends, none of which wore big unds. As they came in from class during the day, they were greeted with bright hellos from my panties. And the panties were greeted with bold bellows of laughter from my friends. I had no idea my favorite unds could be so facetious! The at-the-time-boyfriend flat out thought they were "hot." (Turns out he didn't know so much anyways.) Leave it to me to let them hang out to dry.

But that's how I used to be. My love life was an open book. Sharing my bug unds and other dirty laundry with God and country. I've always been a talker. Story teller. Communicator. Most thoughts in my brain make it to my mouth. In all regards. Opinions, jokes, feelings - what have you. So when anything went wrong with Nathan, I explained it in deep detail, to each girlfriend and sorority sister willing to hear as opposed to the more logical approach of talking to the boyfriend. It felt good to share. It felt good to have someone to listen. It felt good to get revenge...if he messed up, if he pissed me off, I'd let EVERYONE know about it to make him look as dumb as possible. In reality, all the complaining made me look dumb. About as dumb as my huge underwear. Think about it: if he really was that dumb -- and he really wasn't -- why would I want everyone to know I picked a dud? The answer: insecurity and immaturity. Afraid I'd lose him if I pissed him off by letting him know that he pissed me off and worried he'd dump me and get another girlfriend and when I'd see them out together I'd get pissed and worried I'd never date again! I was pissed-worried. I needed the Pissed-Worrieds to piss off.

And alas, my inspiration for this lesson emerges. One of my size-four skinny friends who likes to eat like I do (okay, not THAT much) never hangs her big unds out to dry. And while never discussed, judging by her reaction to my big unds, never had big unds to begin with. Sweet Sarah. Porcelain skin. Bright eyes. Soft spoken (until a few cocktails). Among her many desirable traits, one stands tall: privacy. She has an open-door listening policy for friends. Very attentive. But knock on HER door of relationship issues, and she, with nonchalant cunning, slips her "do not disturb" sign on the knob. And after years of shoving my big unds about Nathan in all my friends' faces, I decided to follow suit with Sarah and make the switch from practical to private.

Back to the lingerie store. Wanted change. Wanted it fast. Wanted less unds, more skin. Needed silky. Needed small. Needed sexy. Found ones. Bought ones. Tossed the old ones. Came home with satin, bikini-cut, age appropriate panties. The kinds with the "sticks" on the sides. Leaving the department store, I felt my feminine power bloom anew. I made a promise to worship privacy, and satin panties were my golden calf.

Immediately, I fell into comfort in my satin panties and more into security with the boy toy. Loved my new unds. They made me feel powerful. Like I had a hold on my man, myself, and my life. As our lover scuffles nevertheless ebbed and waned, I shared when necessary, i.e. when I felt I would literally burst if I didn't, but more selectively. First, with non-judgemental girlfriends. Who knew Nathan a little better than others, outside of Maggie-and-Nathan. I also shared when necessary, i.e REALLY REALLY felt like I would literally burst if I didn't, but even more selectively and secondly with Nathan. I needed to take the next step. Towards true privacy. True commitment. True mature womanhood.

Thongs.

Back again to the lingerie department. A plethora of colors, fabrics, and styles to keep him guessing. I even added some (coordinating, of course) push-up bras. Thong after thong after thong. Va va va voom!

RELATED TANGENT: While I enjoy identifying the symbolic relationship between my unds and privacy with my Nathan, I also quite fancy just plain wearing them. It's like a fabulous prank. Like at work, I appear all focused and such in business attire. Little do they know, I'm actually quite frisky. For beneath the turtlenecks and trousers, behold the power of femininity, in all its seductive potential.

Anyhoo, with my last undergarment transition, my communication approach transformed. As our lover scuffles continue to ebb and wane, I've decided on a radical approach: direct discussion with my lover. I know, I know. Sounds risky and rash. I've also decided on another radical approach: share what's good about Nathan with anyone willing (or unwilling!) to hear. In doing so, I am reminded why I am lucky, why I'm in love.

I don't even HAVE big unds anymore. And let me tell you, not only does he appreciate open discussion one-on-one, Nathan really appreciates open access to my luscious bum. Which typically ignites one-on-one activity all its own. I save my secrets and my sexiness for my man. And I tumble dry those thongs on low heat.