-You must admire the resourcefulness, though. Reuse, reduce, recycle Mama! Just rip that bad boy crotch right outta there and you got yourself a sport’s bra! Depending on how far down that new opening (insert “ripped him a new one” joke here) goes down in front. Of this design. Because obviously the back of the original item is now the front. Showing a little cleavage makes this a (w)hole new ballgame! Or a no-ball game, as it were.
-Joe doesn’t wear these kinds of undies. (Thank goodness! These have been my dad’s choice his entire life, or at least his life after I was around and was forced to encounter his undies in the laundry, and the thought of my husband wearing the same type of tighty-whities my father does petrifies me with a repulsive horror I didn’t know I was capable of. Like, if I ever find myself needing to summon this type of emotion for a dramatic role, this is what I will imagine. And I’d get an Oscar.) Otherwise, I’d be running back to Joe’s undie drawer with some scissors and experimenting.
-Don’t you want to know what is in her right hand? First, I thought it was a marker, then zoomed in and now think it’s a bottle with a dropper in it. Is she going to poison her friend? Returning a potion? I’m assuming they’re friends because they both have tattoos and denim skirts, little purses like it’s just a jaunt in the park. Is that a natural assumption? Should I assume they’re even women? I try to be all-inclusive.
-Now, if people in a fantasy apocalyptic/dystopian world were authentic, they’d be coming up with handy hacks like this all the time, because you’d think at some point, they’re going to need some new clothes, and chances are sizes are limited and they’re going to have to improvise. If survivors just use what they come by there would be some interesting outfits, yes? Theoretically, a band of survivors could come across a box that never got delivered, say abandoned somewhere weird in a post office, and their clothes are all dirty and shredded, “Zombie stains up to here, I tell ya!” and they open the box to reveal several different sizes of Santa suits. You’d have this little band of Santa Survivors. There’d be one 13-year-old boy who cut the legs of his Santa pants off so he could wear shorts all the time, like the kid I saw yesterday walking home from school through the slushy, dirty snow. What gives, kid? I imagine his poor parents at home: “Well, you have to pick your battles…”
It irks me sometimes on shows like The Walking Dead where they all have these jeans that fit so perfect, clothes that are so flattering, showing your biceps or boobs off just right (and are all the women wearing bras?? If I ever find myself in a world where I must fend off zombies or die, I’m not caring about the bra no more, honey!) don’t need any adjustments, sewing. All the tee-shirts are plain, you don’t see anyone like Darrell wearing a woman’s sweatshirt with glittery cats on them, nothing clashes. But who wouldn’t want to see the beautiful, strong and powerful Michonne running around in a sexy tighty-whities-turned-sports-top? That would be more realistic. And ironic because I found, according to the Urban Dictionary (oh where were you when I was in junior high?!) that tighty-whities also now refers metaphorically to racist Caucasians and/or the Alt-right. Aren’t people creative?
-Of course, braless, loose, and swinging boobs would be easier for zombies to grab onto, I suppose. I’d go with a sport’s bra. If I could find one that fit. Or, make one with some tighty-whities with my superior meme knowledge from the past. Which is now.
-You know, my dad would not even miss a pair of undies, come to think of it, what with the dementia, and I’ll be up there next week…
-I wonder, do you get those undies when you join the military? I mean, is it part of the uniform, or do you have a choice? Is the choice between tighty-whiteys or those thin cotton boxers? Can you have print?
-This kind of tongue-in-cheek ingenuity reminds me of a time years ago when I was in a women’s writing class. We met at an artful, comfortable ‘skinny’ house on Green Lake and we always started with some “free writing” where we each found a cozy spot according to our personalities (I was always on the floor), and wrote whatever chatter was in our head. (Or peace, I suppose, but mine was always chatter.) One time I glanced up from my page a second to help dislodge a thought and my eyes lit upon my neighbor’s shoes, simple flats abandoned by her feet she’d curled up under her loose dress on her cushy chair. White and so puffy! I’m about to write a note to self to ask her what kind they are during the break, they look so cozy, and I was in a stage of my life where I wore those black cotton Chinese Mary Janes with everything, (OMG! I just checked the Googleverse to see how to describe these shoes without being offensive – and I’m not sure if I did or not, so let me know if this is insulting or racist, but it best describes what I wore through the 80s – but they still make these and they’re still so cute to me! Sigh.), and though they’re inexpensive and go with everything I like to wear, there is absolutely no support for my feet which have arches like McDonald’s, so yeah, thinking inserts at 20-something. Where was I? Writing a note to self to ask her where she got her shoe inserts, when my mind does a herky-jerky double-take and I look back and see that she’s used menstrual pads to line her shoes. In a matter of seconds, I flush from embarrassment for her, to compassion because I know some of her story from writings she has shared, and finally admiration for her innovation, and carefree attitude. Cheers to inventive souls!
-I only had one thing on my To-Do List today: to dust. Then I see one picture and I have some funny thoughts I write down, and I go on-line to check the commonly accepted spelling of tighty-whities, and next thing you know I see there’s a gang in Potomac called the Tighty-Whities, and that they were invented in 1934 (the undies, not the gang), and this married couple’s blog about spanking is…
-One never knows what will inspire.
-It only feels like hours have gone by since I jumped onto my page, but, it was a mere blip. Now I must dust.