"What should I blog about?" I asked Jeff. "I'm uninspired."
He thought for a second and then said, "Underpants."
Well, okay, then.
Underpants. As a child, I often went without them. In fact, my parents tell me that when my grandmother--who was vocal about her disapproval of their urban hippie lifetsyle--used to visit, I would run into the living room totally nude and squat, pretending that I was about to poop on the floor. Now that is precious, based on the novel Push by Sapphire, which doesn't even have to be altered in any way in order to allude to bowel movements.
Eventually of course I wore clothes, which turned out to be even more embarrassing. My first memory involving underpants is this playdate I had when I was around six. Me and a few other girls were at the house of a classmate named Jimmy. At some point Jimmy's mother found a pair of underpants on the floor, and to find the culprit she lined us all up and made us lift our dresses to prove we weren't naked. Mine were decorated with snowmen. I was a good girl and had kept them on. (This memory has haunted me all these years, so imagine what it must be like for the girl who turned out to be bare-assed!)
I've had all kinds of underpants in my day; I am like the Wilt Chamberlain of undies. Ever color, every style, every unfortunate saying emblazoned across the butt--I've loved them all, until they were threadbare and billowy enough to steer a ship through treacherous waters. I even had a special pair made for my wedding. They did not say "Mrs. Zorabedian." Barf. They said "Mrs. Poo Pants." Well, at least, they were supposed to say "Mrs. Poo Pants;" actually they just said "Poo Pants," which is a different message entirely (I should have called and complained: "That's Mrs. Poo Pants to you!!") See, it all had to do with Ronald and Nancy Reagan, and--wait, this explanation isn't going well. I've circled back around to feces and exhumed The Gipper along the way.
I need to stop letting Jeff play word association with my soul.