I'm no longer a superstitious person, but the third grade me was not the same enlightened woman I am today.
What exactly was I so paranoid about though? Simple answer: underwear.
Eye-numbingly bright day-of-the-week panties to be exact. My eight-year-old brain somehow contrived the notion that if I didn't have the proper day of the week plastered onto the back of my underwear, then my whole day would be doomed to disaster. Those were simpler times when the only thing I needed to feel secure was to have "_____day" printed on my comfortable cotton hipsters.
The impetus that finally drove me to sever my devout commitment to my beloved day-of-the-week panties occurred during an elementary schooler's favorite part of the day — recess. A girl in my class chortled when she noticed the vivid cerulean blue of my trusty Tuesday underwear refused to remain hidden under the sheer fabric of my white shorts. Blood rushed to my cheeks. I was mortified. That night, I tucked away Sunday through Saturday, burying them six feet under in the dark abyss of my dresser.
Middle school was marked by more muted prints that I could still routinely purchase from multi-packs at an affordable price, and my loyalty to them wasn't challenged until freshman year of high school by a new adversary: Visible Panty Lines. The underwear of my childhood boldly asserted its presence under leggings and skinny jeans.
I came to the realization that while it's a matter of public decency to wear underwear, seeing a girl's panty lines becomes a societal taboo as they age.
Boys in my grade sagged their pants with pride, showcasing their boxers to confirm that they were indeed wearing underwear, while I scoured the Internet for solutions to hide that I was wearing mine.
I will always remember the giddy joy coursing through my veins as I purchased my very first individual pair of panties, finally straying from my previous multi-pack ways.
In that moment, I was a sophisticated Carrie Bradshaw, except my cosmopolitan New York City looked more like a Super Target in the depths of southern suburbia.
This experience not only marked my ascent into full-fledged womanhood, but it also taught me a little something about false advertising. It turns out that just because underwear is labeled as "seamless" doesn't mean it evades the panty line test. Naturally, fueled by the insatiable scientist within me, I began experimenting.
Lace and laser cut won't only keep Victoria's secret; they'll also shield the everyday woman from scrutiny. While lace is all cute and dainty, I discovered that it's just personally not my preference. Sure, it's soft at first, but give it ten or so washes and it tends to fall apart like a flimsy McDonald's Happy Meal toy. A soft nylon-spandex-cotton laser cut pair, on the other hand, is simply heavenly. The key term is laser cut. A laser cut pair of panties will always be seamless and stand up against panty lines, but a pair labeled as seamless isn't always laser cut. At this point, you may be thinking, "What about thongs though?" I mean they're the obvious solution if you enjoy having a perpetual wedgie.
