Are you checking out my butt? Do you stand inconspicuously behind me as I walk past just hoping that I don’t turn around in time to catch you drinking in the view of the junk in my trunk? No, huh? I didn’t think so. I have a feeling that no one has made a concerted effort to look at my rear-end since parachute pants were all the rage, and that’s fine with me. Now that I am armed with the knowledge that my behind is yesterday's news, I am ready to rid my life of what is literally a Pain In My Butt: the thong.
My butt hasn’t been relevant for at least twenty years now. I discovered that once you start sitting on it all day to earn a living instead of shaking it at the club or flaunting it around a pool, it starts to lose its appeal to the opposite sex. It’s also true that Mom Butts - no matter how many squats and leg lifts they endure - seem to spread outward at an uncontrollable speed and are decidedly less attractive than Single Girl Butts. So, a forty-two-year-old Mom Butt that is regularly parked in front of a computer or producing rivers of sweat while squirming restlessly in the carpool line at school is virtually invisible to men as a whole.
I don’t wear thong underwear for men, though. Considering the fact that the only twirling around I do during the day is in my desk chair and not a stripper pole, my male co-workers and strangers alike have no idea there is a thong hiding beneath my sensible slacks and skirts. I wear them solely for the legion of creatures that have X-ray vision capable of honing in on my butt quicker than you can scream “wide load” and deftly identifying whether or not my choice of intimate apparel meets with their approval. Who are these scary creatures? Other Women.
It's these Other Women who decided that my panty line is offensive. This smoother-than-thou group of bitter fashionistas took it upon themselves to declare that the visibility of my underwear’s leg seam is an affront to the delicate sensibilities of everyone standing behind me in the Target check out line. There is even an acronym for it: VPL. (visible panty line). Shouldn’t we be concerned with the more pressing fashion atrocities facing our nation such as the zombie-like Muffin Top brigade wandering the aisles at Wal-Mart or how about those coffee shops filled with graying, middle-aged women in Hollister tee shirts and skinny jeans? Please tell me what is more gauche than a woman who graduated from college during the Reagan administration sporting pig tails and shorts with "Bieber's Girl" across the butt in public? Wouldn't you rather see my panty line?
If you have never had the misfortune of wearing a thong for any length of time, then please accept my kudos for managing to escape this torture. Imagine, if you will, what it would feel like to straddle a rope suspended in mid-air while naked. The longer you sit there, the more it feels like you are being slowly cut into two symmetrical pieces. Now, imagine walking up steps, squatting down, putting on shoes, or just breathing with a permanent atomic wedgie. I can’t say for sure, but I believe thong underwear is prohibited under the terms of the Geneva Convention as cruel and unusual punishment. It is obvious that these not-quite-finished undergarments were never intended for use on the dimpled butt of someone’s mom anyway.
I am finished with having a thin, uncomfortable piece of fabric crammed up my bum all day, so heed my warning, Haters: if you are made weak and queasy by the unsightly hem of sensible, non-butt-crack-rash-inducing undies underneath my beige linen pants, then cover your eyes quickly. There is a good chance I might bend over while you're looking and cause you to faint straight away.