"...And I Shall Wear Turquoise Panties Whenever I Please....."

After 2 weeks of the most freakishly hot October weather I've ever experienced, it finally turned cool the other day. It finally feels like Autumn, by gum, and I'm loving it.

But after 4 months in Gulu, I realized that I do not own a single pair of pantyhose. In Uganda, all you need is a decent pedicure and legs that aren't as hairy as a mountain gorilla's, and you're good to go in almost every social setting. But on that first cool morning in Cairo, I decided I desperately needed some pantyhose. Black ones. They always make your legs look great, and besides, you never know when, or why, you'll need them.

So I went over to West Park Mall, in Cape Girardeau, MO. If you don't know, you better ask somebody...the shopping mall is the center of the cultural and social universe in the Midwest. Closely followed by the nearest Wal-Mart Super Center. Anyway, J.C. Penney was having this completely off the hook 75% off sale, so after finding my black pantyhose, I did a bit of sale rack cruising.

Pretty soon, I wound up in the lingerie department. I must admit that I really don't spend much time in lingerie departments, for a lot of deeply-rooted psychological reasons that I really don't want to go into here. But since I've just typed that, I realize I better explain it, or you'll all start thinking I'm some kind of emotionally stunted freak. You see, I've never spent a lot of time there because I've always had a rather utilitarian view about underwear. It's for covering your naughty bits. It holds in your gut. It keeps your boobies in place. That's about it.

I'm also ashamed to say that during the past decade, the only times I've lingered in lingerie were when I was dating some totally inappropriate jerk. Or hoping to date some totally inappropriate jerk. Or deluding myself about wanting to date some totally inappropriate jerk. In my mind, I viewed silky, sexy lingerie as bait, nothing more. I mean, some of the colors are really pretty, and the silk feels fabulous, and you feel really sexy when you wear it, but do I really need to feel sexy sitting in front of my computer at work? And even if I'm wearing the raciest knickers ever made, do I really want the ugly-assed man drooling next to me on the plane to know about it?

For the past decade, for the most part, that's all I've done--work and travel. And traveled for work. Truth be told, that's really all I've WANTED to focus on; relationships have been little more than minor distractions from that pattern, and I think that's why I've subconsciously sought out the most ambivalent, emotionally-detached, psychologically fucked-up men I could find, and chased after 'em like a rabid dog. Lingerie was was merely the costume for my pathetic hunt; that and my terrific home cooking, my sparkling wit, and, unfortunately for me, the absolutely putrid stink of desperation.

One day I'll write about the unbridled horror of my dating life, but right now I'm talking about panties. If you looked into the top drawer of my dresser over in Gulu, you'd swear it belonged to a female lumberjack. It's chock full of big-assed cotton, comfortable Jockey bloomers. I fell in love with them about a decade ago, and now they're all I wear. You'll also find Jockey tee shirts, which are great sleeping gear when perimenopause kicks in. When you wake up in the middle of the night dripping sweat, all you have to do is pull it off, mop yourself off with it, and pull on another one. You'll also find a couple of raggedy black bras in that dresser, and a few other random bits of cloth meant to protect one's chestal and nether regions.

Oh, sure, there are a couple of nice things, but they're all tan, light blue or black. Again, in my utilitarian world, black drawers go with everything. If you're wearing white pants (not that I have in recent years, nor will I ever again wear white pants), black panties are perfect camouflage. You can wear them with casual clothes, and of course, on dressy occasions. Hell, I just spent $57 on a Marks and Spencer bra (black) in Kampala because it was hydraulically perfect. That's a HUGE deal for me. My ceiling for bras to date has been about $30....and that would have to be the SALE price.

But poking through the lingerie sale rack at Penney's, I was mesmerized by all the pretty, frivolous underthings. There was this particularly cute turquoise bra and panty set, my size, and with the discount, it came to about $12. Sure, it might fall apart after the first washing, but I suddenly obsessed about how fun it would be to wear a turquoise bra and matching panties under my tired old Gulu uniform of blue jeans and a tee-shirt. So what if nobody else knows?? I know.

While I was there, I picked out a few other sets in outrageously bright colors...yellow, pink, orange. Then I plunked all of them down on the sales counter next to my black pantyhose. It finally hit me....I've spent my entire life wearing practical underwear, and for what purpose?? Why do I think the only time I deserve to feel sexy and hot is when there's a man in my life? What am I waiting for?

And what fate is out there waiting for me? Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, after all.

The Penney's panty purchase was so exhilarating, my next stop was Victoria's Secret, where I spent a grip on their new Very Sexy bras that offer astoundingly good support without underwires that set off airport security scanners and cut into your chest cavity during your bloated PMS days. And I made sure to get matching panties for each one.

You see, there's something about cradling your beautiful 57-year old-sister's bald head, and rubbing cream on her distended, cancer-filled belly, that makes you realize life is too goddamned short to spend it wearing granny panties almost every day of your life. So maybe I'll start a new club, sort of the precursor to the Red Hat Society. I'll call it the Turquoise Panty Crew, and membership is open to all 40-something women who dare to feel pretty every damned day of their lives, no matter what society says or what some man says or what your hormone-addled brain screams at you about the few extra pounds around your waist, or the slightly flappy arms, or the broadening butt. None of that crap matters.

Right now, for me, all that matters is helping Julie find some peace. And I'm gonna do it wearing some seriously frilly drawers.