Underwear
There are many things I said I'd never do when I was a mom. One of these things was to wear underwear with holes in them.
As a kid, I remember folding the clothes, carefully placing my mother's underwear into a pile. There were very few intact pairs. On most of them, the elastic was worn or the back had a hole in it. Yet still, she wore those panties.
What in the heck? I used to think. Why doesn't mom get new underwear?
Last night, I confirmed that I am, indeed, my mother's child and that apparently, I will wear underwear with holes in them. While folding my own clothes, I stumbled upon a pair of polka dot bikinis (I'm not so much like my mother; I refuse to wear briefs.) that had seen better days, for sure. The underwear had lost its luster, along with its elasticity and a few threads. While I should have thrown out the pair, I didn't. I folded it up and it's sitting, right now, in its home in my drawer.
I get it now. Why mom didn't buy new underwear. Why I don't buy new underwear. It's not that I don't have the money to head to Target and buy a new bag of Hanes. It's not that I couldn't even step it up and get a few more expensive pairs of underwear from the department store. It's that the concept of buying myself new underwear isn't on the list of things I need to do today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Buying new underwear won't win out over volunteering at school or reading with Melina. Making sure my undies are whole doesn't hold a candle to helping the girls with math homework or carting Aaron to piano. New underwear is the last thing on my list, behind dog doo and cat vomit.
Now, if Tim had any sense, he'd read this, head to Victoria's Secret, and pick me up some new, better, lovelier (I still like cotton, Timmy), underwear. He did get snipped, after all.
As a kid, I remember folding the clothes, carefully placing my mother's underwear into a pile. There were very few intact pairs. On most of them, the elastic was worn or the back had a hole in it. Yet still, she wore those panties.
What in the heck? I used to think. Why doesn't mom get new underwear?
Last night, I confirmed that I am, indeed, my mother's child and that apparently, I will wear underwear with holes in them. While folding my own clothes, I stumbled upon a pair of polka dot bikinis (I'm not so much like my mother; I refuse to wear briefs.) that had seen better days, for sure. The underwear had lost its luster, along with its elasticity and a few threads. While I should have thrown out the pair, I didn't. I folded it up and it's sitting, right now, in its home in my drawer.
I get it now. Why mom didn't buy new underwear. Why I don't buy new underwear. It's not that I don't have the money to head to Target and buy a new bag of Hanes. It's not that I couldn't even step it up and get a few more expensive pairs of underwear from the department store. It's that the concept of buying myself new underwear isn't on the list of things I need to do today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Buying new underwear won't win out over volunteering at school or reading with Melina. Making sure my undies are whole doesn't hold a candle to helping the girls with math homework or carting Aaron to piano. New underwear is the last thing on my list, behind dog doo and cat vomit.
Now, if Tim had any sense, he'd read this, head to Victoria's Secret, and pick me up some new, better, lovelier (I still like cotton, Timmy), underwear. He did get snipped, after all.
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