Oh! My! Gawd! I have just realized that this is going to be the most awesome summer ever. I mean — really awesome — like right up there with the summer of ’77 that Kathy George and I spent playing Monopoly on her dad’s garage workbench while eating endless Lick-A-sticks.
What could make this summer, the one where my mom will be in weekly chemo and my kids will be whining and crawling out of their skin in search of stuff to do, so phenomenally great?
Why, The New York Times AND the millennial generation have finally — FINALLY — given me permission to wear comfortable underwear whist being a feminist!
Are you just standing up and cheering?
I have tears of joy streaming down to my punctuated red lips (another trend I’m allowed to follow this summer) as I write.
I mean, ALL these years of thongs grating between my butt cheeks and lacy satin panties that wick moisture from one’s vagina about as well as bread repels gravy.
[I used panties, moisture, and vagina in the same sentence even though they are three of the most hated words in America (well, vagina didn’t make the official list, but I have this weird feeling it’s a pretty odious word to a whole bunch of people anyway) because I figure if the generation that invented feminism says I can start wearing comfortable panties, they will probably let me start using those words again too. Whew.]
Everybody knows how important it has been to me personally to have the most delicate of delicates (that one time I mooned an entire church while wearing baggy granny panties — and not the feminist kind — not withstanding). Darn it all! When I hide my underwear and bra under my yoga pants and sweatshirt at the gyne, I make damn sure they are most couturiest crotch-huggers possible. What if there’s an earthquake just as she’s locked in that speculum and my clothing topples to the floor, panties up? I wouldn’t be able to hop from the table to re-hide any sort of unmentionably ugly unmentionables. No! I’d have to lay there all spread eagle and mortified at the state of my underpants!
But not now! Now, according to every website that concerns itself with how women cover our bits (and thank the good goddess of drawers there are so so many), now we can show our butt-covering, naval grazing, perfectly dry, cotton-spandex blended panties with pride at the hoo-ha doc. Women of the world! Place those undies ON TOP of your yoga pants and hoodies (but not the bras because nobody has instructed us as to what we may and may not do with those yet; will they tell us it’s okay to rip out our underwires and loosen our straps or will they remind us how important it is to have our breasts hoisted up to our chins by a thin strip of lace and sweat-inducing silk? I can scarcely wait to find out. I shan’t make my own brazier choices until I know exactly what to do).
Oh, if only this permission had been granted back when I was 42 weeks pregnant during the hottest, muggiest week of summer. I might not have worked so hard to adjust my sheer, chiffon dainties to sit under my belly just so. And don’t even get me started about how much easier it would have been to wear those post-partum mini-mattress pads for six weeks after giving birth had I been told I was allowed to wear comfortable underwear back them. It was SUPER hard to balance those things on the tightrope that covered my crack while also figuring out how to get my lady jigglies to bounce back into the happy little triangle a certain catalogue covered in angels and hiding a secret told me I was supposed to have.
Gosh golly! This is the best day!
Here’s what I am going to do: First — pull all those underwear I typically reserve for laundry day from the back of my drawers drawer to the front. There are like 3 of them, I think. Then, I will take the underwear I had to wear before all the 20-year-olds made up feminism for the first time ever and put them in my time capsule. That way, my daughters and granddaughters can some day open it up and laugh and laugh and then say an ever-so-sincere prayer of thanks that those babies born between 1981 and 1997 paved the way for them to wear dry chonies, free from all binding, chaffing, and bunching.
Next, I am heading straight over to the local drugstore and stocking up on plastic-wrapped briefs in pack of three. Dozens of them! Well, maybe not dozens! I mean, what if these feminists decide I need a new style of panties for the fall: something more spanx-y or more edible? I’ll need to comply because that is exactly how feminism works, isn’t it? Someone decides that what women have been doing for a gazillion years anyway is no longer shameful because it’s suddenly fashionable because they said so — like when that Ally McBeal said we could wear whatever we wanted to wear to work or when that Carrie Bradshaw made it okay for women to have sex or when that lady was all, “Lean in! Lean in!”
What is going to be next, I wonder? Will these millennials and their brand-spanking new, fancy fancy feminism allow us to choose whether or not we want to become moms? Or what sort of career we do or don’t want? Will they suggest we choose what we do and don’t do with our bodies and with whom we do or don’t do what we are doing or not doing? Maybe they’ll even give us permission to wear what we want to wear on the OUTSIDE as well — for everyone else to see?
I, for one, am waiting with baited breath for the next decision I am allowed to make as a feminist.