I had a bad day this past Monday and my underwear had a lot to do with this. I was wearing a cute new dress and a pair of hipster briefs that may have been a little past their expiration date. They were nylonish and started giving me trouble almost the second I walked out the door. But, being late for my doctor's appointment—an orthopedist for my aching feet—I kept going. Mistake.
As I hurried down the subway stairs, my underpants started to hurry down under my ass. Ugh. I gave them a yank and got on the train. It was a beautiful early fall day. I got to the doctor and she told me I have unusually high arches, which is why jumping up and down like a lunatic hurts my feet and ankles. Because I'm old, I get to see a podiatrist next week who will x-ray my feet and likely prescribe me orthotics. Sigh. Anyway. . . .
By this time my underpants have had enough of me and are making a run for it. I leave the doctor's office, walking down the street, actually wrestling with my underpants through my dress with one hand. I walk with intent, certain that within minutes I'll be purchasing some new underwear and I'll quickly find a place to change into them. Duane Reade! Yes! I found a three-pack of plain Hanes for eight bucks. My plan was coming together.
Now I just needed a place to change. You'd think this would be easy, but there are no dark alleys on a bright, beautiful sunny day, so I stuck the Duane Reade replacement underpants into my bag and went downtown so I could pick up a Time Out Guide to Paris at Barnes & Noble and change my underpants in an unused row of books. I realize now this was a supremely stupid plan.
I got to the store and, despite the fact that nobody actually buys books anymore (at least not MY BOOK), the store was packed. But there weren't many people on the second floor, in the kids section, so I stopped there and furtively ducked down an aisle. Just as I had my hand up my dress, a mommy happened by and shot me a look. Duh. Grown-ass lady with her hand up in her business in the children's section at Barnes and Noble, news at 11.
Foiled, I ran out of there and went into the Starbucks across the street. The line to the bathroom was eight deep and by now I was in a rush. So I did the sensible thing and hailed a cab. You can do ANYTHING in a NYC yellow cab and the driver won't even blink. So I told him where I was going, yanked off those panties and stuck them in my purse. I didn't full-on change into the new ones, but just getting rid of those bastards felt so much better. Anyway, from now on, fuck the hipster briefs, the bikini bottoms and the novelty boy shorts. I'm going strictly granny panty from now on. Just thought I'd share, what with it being fashion week and all.