So this week my brain only has space for so much. I've been on automatic. Shutting down non-essential functions -- like make-up, not baths -- in favor of fully powering up the important stuff, like contemplating my place in the universe.
It was during one such meditation sesh that I noticed something was really really bothering me. Every time I tried to sit quietly in my "own stillness" (sorry my mom's a hippie) and listen out for whatever Jesus or Jehovah or Zeus wanted me to hear, I'd start wiggling and writhing on the yoga mat that's never made it outside my bedroom.
Was the universe trying to tell me something? Was my inability to keep still somehow a symptom of my legendary knack for avoidance? Nope. It was my thong. Never before has that strap of cotton literally rubbed me as wrong as it did then. Riding up and ruining my zen.
I'm officially over the female loin cloth. Actually I have no clue why I started wearing them in the first place. Oh, right, a bunch of high-school girls told me to.
Like the transition from pads to tampons, going from bikini briefs (which were pretty grown up as far as my mom was concerned) to thongs wasn't about comfort for me, it was about fitting in. Strangely enough, in 10th grade, everyone was acutely aware of what other girls were wearing under their clothes. If you weren't mature enough to wear a thong like the rest of the girls who rolled up their plaid uniform skirts, then you, of course, had the dreaded VPLs (visible panty lines) and were naturally a horrible human being.
I never got why everyone was so concerned about seeing the outline of your panties. Did it offend the sensibilities that much to know I enjoyed the sweet comfort cotton underpants could provide? But instead of questioning the system I became a slave to all Victoria Secret everything like all the other 15-year-olds.
So fast forward about a dozen-and-a-half years and thongs still dominate my top right drawer because I've been "Mad Men"-ed into believing that a piece of clothing originally designed to protect penises about 75,000 years ago is somehow strong enough for a man but made for a woman. I'm revolting.
One of my favorite movie scenes is the "panty ballet" from "An Unmarried Woman" starring Jill Clayburgh as Erica, a woman who finds herself after her husband leaves. While alone in the house finally wife and mom Erica busts some sweet moves in her living room while wearing nothing but some silky briefs and a shirt. The nude nod to freedom and whimsy and fun. That scene paved the way for Tom Cruise's "home alone in your undies" routine in "Risky Business."
Moral of the story? When people want to be comfy and creative, they reach for briefs not butt floss. And I want in the club.
So basically this is a very long "Ask Julie." I'm over thongs and like Emily, I refuse to wear pants when I'm working from home, which means I'm rarely if ever in pants. In lieu of sitting on my yoga mat naked, I need some comfy briefs that say, "Hey, I'm zen but also casually chic because who doesn't want to be casually chic while meditating in their underwear?"