Allow me to introduce you to Susan Helene Gottfried from West of Mars. We met online and have learned we share a sense of humor. From last week's blog, I learned that most of you would give up your panties before your phone, credit card and shoes. Now, I thought you might want to read Susan's point of view on panties. When she sent the post to me, I couldn't help but laugh. Why? Because darn it if I'm not one of those anti-thong people. In my defense I don't were flip flops either. Don't want things between my toes or between . . . other things! Anyway welcome Susan.
I don't know how many times I've sat through a conversation that's begun with a variation of this sentence: "I don't know how anyone could ever stand to wear a thong. Who wants a piece of string up their butt?"
It's always the butt. Never the ass.
Maybe that says plenty right there. I don't know.
What I do know is that I rarely speak up in these situations. I merely smile and hold my counsel.
I bet you've figured out why. Yep, I wear thongs. When I don't wear a thong, I'm wearing a G-string. It's what works for me. They stay put. I never have to turn my back to my car as I get out of it while I pick at the seams that just bunched up. There's no need to casually hook my finger through the denim of my jeans and give a practiced flick to settle the cotton/nylon/silk/lace/leather/whatever back into place, all the while trying to be cool and completely un-self-conscious.
That's not why I don't speak up, though. It's not that I think talking about my panties is too revealing. Or beneath me. Or that I don't want to open myself to further ridicule. Or to hear that so-and-so's husband agrees with good old Fred Durst (the frontman of Limp Bizkit, a band I personally don't like, but this fits so we'll shamelessly talk about Fred and, for once, not make fun of him) and that bikinis or tangas or hell, even granny briefs are sexier than a thong. Or a G-string.
I keep quiet because it's easier. The speaker is almost always set in her bikini/boy short/tanga/granny panty way. She doesn't want to change. She wants to hear other people agree with her. She wants to feel safe in her views of women's skivvies, and thongs and G-strings aren't safe. It's that simple.
But me, I threaten the club. I'm the maverick, the outsider, the bad girl who thinks not having panty lines is a bonus to the lack of pickin' at the crack. No one wants to hear that you adjust pretty fast to the feel of a thong or G-string. That wearing snug pants makes you stop feeling the strangeness that much faster. That when you're having an illicit adventure with the Tour Manger, a G-string can be tucked into cleavage that much easier…
Okay, so that last part didn't happen to me. That sort of situation is exactly why I write fiction. (But Susan, don't you do research? Well, maybe. I'm the one who keeps quiet, remember?)
Yes, I keep quiet even though I could be the one who introduces the shock! the outrage! the scandal of being the bad girl! into the group. I could be the wild child, the one who'll dance on top of the bar when we go dancing. Maybe I was the one who snuck under the bleachers with that hottie from the football team, the one with those doe eyes and luscious lips.
But maybe I'm what I look like: the girl in the jeans and fleece tops who looks more likely to run through the guys' flag football adventure at the local elementary school's field. You know her: the one who's likely to pick off the ball and run into the endzone and start celebrating while all the guys stop and stare not just at the girl's audacity but the fact that that girl had some moves.
Maybe none of that really matters. Maybe I'm neither woman. Heck, I'm not even sure either woman truly exists; human beings are more complex than that. It's also human of us to need to compartmentalize our fellow humans into those simple, easy pigeonholes that way.
All in all, it comes down to this: I know who I am. I know why I wear thongs and G-strings. I know about the lack of panty lines, the chafing, the feelings of sexiness and the way when you look in the mirror, sometimes it seems that maybe letting it all hang out isn't the sexy choice.
Maybe I don't speak up because it would destroy the silent superiority I feel toward these women, who use safe words like butt instead of ass. Maybe it's the flip side: that I know speaking up would only ruin the solidarity among women who don't want their minds changed. Maybe I keep quiet because ultimately, I just don't care what they think, one way or another. Or maybe I keep quiet because while I don't agree with their views, I want to belong to the club. Keeping quiet allows me at least a measure of delusion. For a few seconds there, keeping quiet lets me belong.
Because no matter what we're wearing up against our little girl parts, we all want to belong.