There is nothing better than new underwear.
Every morning my routine's the same: After a satisfying, 13-minute shower, I push my soggy feet into tired slippers, tie a robe around my waist and return to my bedroom, whereupon, I open my underwear drawer. Actually, there are two drawers. Because, well, I own that many underwear.
Each panty tells a story, and I'm reluctant to toss them. First of all there are the conventional, solid white, no frill, high-waisted briefs I thought would be good just to have around
like an extra toothbrush. Or when white pants are involved. But let's face it, I'd choose no underwear to grandma underwear any day.
Further rummaging produces treasures of impracticality. The XSs when I hoped the cheeks were a little firmer from worthless hours of Buns of Steel workouts. The string bikinis that acted more like a tightrope than a balancing act. And then the tacky character underwear. Ugh. Pairs upon pairs of Tigger and Winnie the Pooh dancing on my bum. Total junior high ... or maybe high school.
Somewhere in the back of the second drawer is the underwear of experimentation: invisible panty-line panties, minimizers, concealers, thongs that predate the invention of low rise thongs, itchy lace to achieve a true look of elegance and 17th Century sophistication (not so sophisticated when one's tush is being scratched in most unladylike ways). Silks, polyesters, even flannel - I have tried them all.
I reach past all these for a pair so worn out, so faded I say a little prayer to guarantee they will survive another day. This underwear is holey, threads are broken in spots and the elastic no longer stretches to conform to my waist, it just knows where to go. I don't think twice when sliding my legs through these low-rise, cotton, hardly-know-they're-there undies.
But over the weekend, I went shopping. The overage check was signed and deposited and payday had arrived - retail therapy was at my hand with every swoosh of my debit card. The destination: Victoria's Secret, Lancaster, Ohio.
Victoria's Secret, a godsend on a rainy day, is the ultimate in luxury for women. Its signature pink and black mantra of sexiness and power continues to be the epitome of romance. It's not the KitKat and YooHoo, but the Godiva and wine. Little girls don't walk into this lingerie store. Oh no. Women browse the silks, finger the soft lace and murmur soft whispers of, I have to have this.
The air tastes sweet and the lighting is low. Even the carpet is plush and one begins to think of redesigning her wardrobe to include only shades of pinks, creams and satin blacks. I want to be a Victoria's Secret girl. I envy the smart measuring tape slinked around the saleswomen's neck, her crisp apron around her waist. I wonder if they get a discount...
But I must remain strong and focus on the hunt. These distractions are secondary to my need to purchase something, anything with Victoria's name on the waistband.
At first, I am drawn to scantily clad mannequins wearing bustiers and garments straight out of a Danielle Steele novel. Beautiful, but not practical for a woman without any boost for a bustier, or a boyfriend, for that matter. Moving on, I see mountains of underwear in every form imaginable stacked high on round tables. They call to me.
And then I see it. Five for $19.50, an assortment of floral, stripe and solid selections in shades matching those of the season: deep plum, winter green and peppermint pink. Even a bright, pumpkin orange.
Swoosh.
I can barely wait to get home to slip on a new pair. Back in my room, I introduce my Vickies to their new home - they get the honored top drawer for at-hand convenience.
After a shower the next morning, I slip on the gray-striped pair. They have the comfort of a nice fit with the satisfaction of true romantic appeal and subtle possibilities of grandeur. New, soft, sexy.
Another chapter in my underwear drawer.
--Sara Bisker is The Post's culture editor and prefers boxers to briefs. E-mail her at sara.bisker@ohiou.edu. 17
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