My Panties are Having an Identity Crisis

"Houston, we have a problem."

That's what I felt like saying the other day when something really uncomfortable happened. I'm not talking emotionally uncomfortable. I'm not talking intellectually uncomfortable. I'm talking physically uncomfortable. The kind of physical discomfort that arises from one's panties having an identity crisis.

We've all had this happen, yes?

We buy lacy and frilly panties for those 'special occasions', maybe some over priced mini pieces of silk or cotton linked together by elastic the width of dental floss so we can look or feel uber sexy for a particular moment in time. When we put these undergarments on, we may experience a certain degree of ... ahem ... irritation. We expect this and are willing to put up with it.

Don't get me wrong, in my younger years, I often wore what I suppose could technically be classified as 'underwear' because they were 'worn under' your clothes - but let's be honest, it was only for show. Indeed, on some occasions, I didn't even wear underwear (bet you're glad you read that, hey Mom?), because really, was there much difference between au naturel and a thong? I guess at that time I simply got used to having a string running up my butt crack, and it just didn't bother me.

Flash forward four children and some major growth in the rear sector. I'm not quite to the 'granny panty' stage by any means - but I swear the only thongs you will ever see on me will be found on my feet. That isn't to say I haven't tried to go back - but it turns out that multiple pregnancies have made my butt crack a bit more 'sensitive' - and let's face it, if my a$$ isn't comfortable, neither am I.

So instead, I choose to wear 'comfortable' panties, and I'm ok with that. They work for me. Most of the time. Until recently, when one rogue pair seems to have decided it is destined for more.

A most unlikely offender.

I'm not sure what exactly happened. Perhaps it's because I have lost a lot of weight. Perhaps they are getting old and the elastic isn't quite as strong as it used to be. Perhaps it was because, in the very fabric of their being, these panties just needed a hug that could only be delivered by being squished between two hot and sweaty a$$ cheeks while their owner strolled along the Vegas Strip.

Whatever the reason, these suckers wedged up my butt so high I wasn't sure they were even going to be retrievable. I would try to discourage them by giving a gentle tug when I was certain no one was looking; however minutes later they would be right back up there, leaving me feeling like I should be out frolicking freely in the ocean rather than standing in the desert trying to subtly declutter my crack.

image from fanpop.com

The more we walked, the worse it got. My a$$ was NOT happy, and consequently, neither was I. In the end, while I would like to support these panties in their quest for whatever it is they are seeking, I'm afraid that, for the time being, they will have to be relegated to the bottom of the panty pile. The a$$ has spoken.