The Woes of Underpants

Underwear just piss me right off.

To little 15 yr olds: I don’t need to see the ENTIRE string of your v-string under your lowrise jeans. I realize you wish to convey to horny teen boys that you are quite ready to give up your virginity to them (or at least are the kind of girl that will do anything BUT), but there are other ways to let these lucky lucky boys know- like sexting them.

To fat ladies: panty lines under stretchy pants- not good. I understand that any v-string or thong you women would wear in an attempt to fix this disaster would be lost in the folds of excess skin that has settled around your waste, and so, to prevent my eyes from being assaulted by the outline of your granny panties, please cease to wear stretchy pants until further notified of a more favorable solution.

As far as wearing underwear: Thongs- yes, please give me something with which to floss any stray fecal matter from my crack. Bikinis – yes, I realize I have a stellar physique, unfortuneately it does not come complete with hips to hold up bikini undies. And everything else-gets bunchy under my faux leather leggings.

Buying underwear: to Victorias Secret- seriously?! $18 for a piece of string and a triangle of cotton? (Sadly, I fell for this terrible ploy and ended up owing Victoria MANY dollars before I realized I would not look like a model in her underwear) To Walmart: washing a pair of your underwear should not make them disintegrate.

THEREFORE, I claim this day as  Commando Day. HOO- RAH.

Exquisite Pain

For my post title, I was going to steal the title from a Sex and the City episode, but that would border on plagiarism, so I put the English version of it. 🙂 Tricky me. No this post is NOT about S&M, and how I liked to get spanked,(god, you have no idea!) but about the fact that I have a new pair of “tallest shoes”, and how I am sure to be a cripple by the time I’m 50.

I suppose my first pair of heels were the chunky Mary Janes my fashionable friends convinced me to buy when I was 16. They were so beautiful; little flowers were embroidered along the toe and down the heel, and I wore them until they broke. (Sad day.)  I have not stopped buying heels since. The height of my addiction was when I kept paying off my Victoria’s Secret card, and they conveniently kept raising my credit limit, and happened to mail me a new shoe catalogue at least twice a week. (Bastards!) $2800 later, my good credit score is replaced with 13 pairs of fabulous shoes that I, in no way, can use as collateral in buying a house. Victoria took away my credit card, but I have figured out other ways to feed my obsession.

I get the most notice of my shoes at church, and no Sunday is complete without a white-haired elderly person exclaiming, “Oh! Look at your shoes! How can you walk in those! My feet would be killing me!” I assure them that my feet do not suffer (much) because I take my shoes off while I’m at the piano, and only extensive hours in said shoes cause discomfort.

On the way to visit my brother, I accidentally (on purpose) stopped at a store to look for a new pair of heels. After all, it’s been over a month since I’ve bought a pair… Anyhoo, I walked in and my eyes were immediately drawn to a pair of 6″ leopard-print booties with patent leather heels (Hallelujah! I have seen the light!) I rushed to them and tried them on, admiring them as I sauntered back and forth in front of the store’s little shoe mirrors. I looked at the price tag- $22.98?! What madness is this?! A breathtaking pair of shoes for under $30?!  I restrained myself from buying 3 other pairs of shoes, (becuase I don’t need my Rockstar’s Daughter saying again, “You bought ANOTHER pair of shoes? I don’t think Dad wants that many shoes in his closet.”) And I glided out to my car with my purchase and proceeded to decorate my feet with my new shoes. I then was off to my brother’s.

During the day, my brother and I ventured to a few stores, and ended up at my fave, Half-Priced Books. At each stop we made, I looked down at my new shoes and thought, “They are so PRETTY! I can’t stop looking at them!” and the Click click click of my stillettos as I walked through stores sent a chill straight to my nether-regions. Now I will tell you a secret.

What no one will mention about high heels is that they are really meant for fashion shoot photos only. As in, minimal walking required. Because after 2 or 3 hours of standing, walking, or running in heels, a person’s back begins to bunch up, their legs begin to spasm, and their feet (if feet had voices) begin to scream, “You bitch!!! Your killing me!” I am convinced every woman that’s worn heels for an entire day would concur. Back to my story.

As I was click click clicking my way through the bookstore, I noticed that my feet were beginning to ache. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to alleviate the pain, but to no avail. At one point, I even sat on the floor of the store, using the excuse that I was looking at the Larry McMurtry books on the bottom shelve.( It’s true) As we left, my brother walked ahead of me to the car as I stumbled along in my 6″ torture devices, trying desperately to keep up the appearance that my shoes were fucking fabulous. When we arrived back at his house, I let out a huge sigh of relief when I unzipped my new booties and flung them away from me.

Yes, how silly of me to keep buying shoes that after a few hours of wearing feel as though I’m walking on sharpened bowie knives. However, as any masochist, I am addicted to the equisite pain of showing off gorgeous shoes, and when I am forced to cruise around in a scooter because of the extensive damage my heel wearage has caused to my body, I will continue to make a fashion statement.