Weird Things I Miss: A Love Letter to Your Underwear
I folded your last pair of underwear. Not your literal last pair, you took some to Iraq, and there's a drawer at home with the pairs that didn't make the cut. Which basically look the same as the ones deemed worthy of deployment. Unlike a woman's underwear drawer, which has her sexy underwear, and her period underwear, and her comfy underwear, and her kind of cheeky underwear, and her postpartum underwear, and her plain black underwear, and her cutesy print underwear, your underwear comes in one cut and three colors. If by colors you mean black, gray, and...two colors. It comes in two colors.
Damn, I should get on the minimalist underwear train. You were ahead of the cultural curve, Boo. Ask not, do these underwear give me joy? Ask if they are never worn because thongs sound sexy as all hell but why am I walking around with a wedgie all day VOLUNTARILY? Why do I believe both ass cheeks to the wind is the sine qua non of sexy lady undergarments? Is it because all the Hot Girls at my middle school went full Whale's Tail? That's low rise jeans, thong sticking out, for those of you who came of age in other ages. I mean, at least my generation didn't get girdles. My Grammy can tell you some horror stories.
As Chief Laundry Officer, I have got used to a certain standard of laundry. I do laundry, oh, every other day or so. Sometimes every day. Sometimes twice a day. Depends on the diaper blowout situation, how much marinara sauce they're serving at daycare, and if Harley puked on the bathmat again.
You get used to certain things. How fitted sheets never fold nicely, even after watching videos explaining how a trained monkey could do it. How baby pajamas are the cutest things in the world FIGHT ME if you disagree. That I actually have magical sock matching powers and usually find each one a mate. The creation of my standard set of folded piles: Daughter, Son, Me, You, Sheets, Towels.
There is no You here anymore, Boo.
The last time I folded your underwear, I did so carefully, only to cram it unceremoniously into a drawer filled with your hiking clothes, because I actually took your underwear drawer over for baby essentials to get some off our damn dresser.
But it was your last pair. The pair you wore the day before the day you left. It was a lonely pair. The You laundry pile was meager. Only a pair of socks and a workout t-shirt accompanied your undies.
It made me think, where are your underwear now? What are you using for a laundry hamper? Do you have access to washing machines? Are they coin operated or free? Do you use a dryer, or just hang them in the desert sun? Are they being changed on a rotation of which your mother and I would be proud, or being turned inside out for just one more use?
Miss the underwear. Miss the man.