As I was pounding out punches and doing my roundhouse kicks in Kickbox Jam yesterday morning, I quickly realized one thing. It is high time I purchased new underwear. It is one thing to have a classic wedgie, underwear slowly riding up your crack to create a lovely ass-view for specatators behind you. It is entirely a different experience to have a LEDGIE. This is a sideways wedgie not just up your ass but up your labes, too. Painful, yes. Impossible to yank out in public, of course. Mine was full-throttle LEDGIE, cutting the circultation to my goodie box big time. Only women are privy to this little treat. And if you are wearing a thong that's too loose, it can happen so bad that you feel like your genitals are bring mutilated by the entire Ginsu knife collection on HSN. Ouch.
We all have stray pairs of undies we hang on to to for "I don't give a shit because nothing else is clean so I'm wearing these" days. I have an array of these with jacked-up elastic, holes, frayed crotches. They are not pretty, in fact they are so ghetto you wonder what they even used to look like in their glory days. Who in the hell is going to see them anyways? After being married 11 1/2 years my husband only tends to notice if I'm NOT wearing anything. The whole "bom chicka wah wah" Pussycat Girls dance routine just takes too much time, coordination, and energy. At this stage in our marriage it's like, get to the damn point and lay down already. TMTH, I know....
I also have at least one laundry basket overflowing with single socks whose other half of the pair have long since disappeared. Where in the hell do these other socks go? It is mind-boggling. The socks are taken off together, chucked into the laundry basket together, but somewhere along the way they lose their mate. Washing, pairing up, folding, and putting away socks is the chore I detest most. I would rather do a Tabasco enema that deal with God damn socks in my laundry. These lone socks haunt me like Patrick Swayze's annoying-ass spirit in Ghost. I try to throw them out but then I think, "Wait, I KNOW I saw that other purple sock two days ago!" Fucking lone footwear.
My bedroom has a plethora of discarded clothing I think dreamily "someday I'll find the mate/fit my ass into those jeans/need to have a spare pair of undies". I guess I tend to hoard shit. There, I said it. I have an extremely difficult time throwing anything out. I have piles and boxes and loop-handled bags exploding with school projects, spelling tests, three dimensional art projects that are falling apart. I am sentimental and impractical. It's not a scary amount of crap, like some hillbilly who has every newspaper from 1972 till now. I just sometimes think I will feel sad (wah-wah---insert Debbie Downer music here) if I toss something then wonder, "Now where is that adorable penguin picture Isabella drew in her first pre-school class?" I know, not gonna happen. But I shudder to take the chance.
Okay, I'm turning a new leaf ladies and gents. Screw it. I'm heading upstairs with a big, black Hefty bag and a mission. I WILL throw that shit out, starting with those God damn socks. If I can't tell which kid made the decoupage Valentine's Day heart, I'll chuck it. I will purge better than a supermodel after Easter brunch. I will make you proud. But I might need to keep one pair, just one, of my scraggly undies just in case...
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