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Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Places, Everybody!


Traditionally, the first day of the new year finds me administering performance evaluations on my undergarments.  My kind of unwavering optimism is no accident.  It's built, in part, by combining three crucial ingredients - a winning attitude, some structurally sound bloomers and a few reliable bras.  Here's how I get the job done.

1.  I dump out the contents of my underwear drawer onto the bed.

2.  I gather up all the spare change to redeem for paper money at the Coinstar.

3.  I separate all the candy and gum that I find into color-coordinated categories. Orange and brown wrappers generally indicate Halloween treats which are still edible until Valentine's Day.  Pink and yellow jellybean-shaped goodies are probably Easter leftovers.  I pitch those in the garbage, unless I'm feeling really desperate.

4.  I arrange my unmentionables in loose, orderly piles.  Thorough interviews are conducted with each and every article of clothing.
           
          Tell me a little bit about yourself.
          Why does this job appeal to you?
          Would you consider yourself a team player?
          Do you perform well under pressure?
          Where do you see yourself in five years? *

* That last one's a trick question.
   No one gets any medals for being a martyr, not in today's army.

Harnesses with less than enthusiastic elastic are dismissed with extreme prejudice.  There's nothing more distracting than an insincere bra riding up one's back like a worn out saddle.  Frayed and manky wife beaters, we're gonna have to let you go.  Shame on you, lady shorts with holes and big rips.  You are, by far, the most upsetting aspect of this entire exercise.  I sit on the edge of my bunk and ask myself, "Is my environment really this hostile?"  For the life of me, I can't recall.  Perhaps these memories are so horrific that I've blocked them out entirely.  I reach into the trash for that expired Cadbury egg.

My social encounters never seem contentious enough to warrant the disgraceful condition of these scruffy tearaways.  My course of conduct is somewhat domesticated, I suppose.  As a rule, I encounter very few sexy situations in my day-to-day exchanges.  Look, I'm not complaining.

It's just that I prefer practicality in my panties.  Nothing too lacy and absolutely no gimmicks.  All that frivolity is bothersome.  Save the bells and whistles for the runway models.  Those poor girls lurking in dark alleys, practicing how to walk in heels just so someone will notice them.

I need loyal support and cooperation from my knickers, so I can concentrate and be successful in a crazy, mixed up world.  I don't have a whole lot of extra time to be keeping tabs on what's slipping out the side door and where it thinks it's going.

Places, everybody!

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