Something's Missing

I just bought a pair of crotchless panties for no reason, and if that isn’t a sign of misplaced optimism, I don’t know what is.

I’m not having sex with anybody.  I don’t mean at this exact moment – I mean that it’s more likely I’ll get hit by lightning before I have a reason to wear these underpants.  Unless I suddenly decide my vulva needs a chance to blow in the breeze some random Tuesday, I have no need for this barely there undergarment.

It’s not as if wearing crotchless panties ahead of a likely sexual encounter is even a good idea.  That’s a lot to hit a partner with, just all of a sudden.  I feel there should be some kind of warning upfront. 

Like, “Oh hey.  Just so you know, before anything really gets started, I’m wearing underwear without a crotch.  I’m not sure why either, but let’s just calm down and get through this.”

Going crotchless sets some pretty serious expectations that aren’t likely to be met. It’s the nuclear lingerie option. 

Crotchless implies something grandiose is about to happen.  Whatever sex is about to go down needs to be epic, and that’s a lot of pressure. Masquerade masks should be involved, perhaps an artfully choreographed orgy or at the very least…one partner. 

My underwear is usually more utilitarian.  I prefer granny panties to sleep in, thongs during the day so as to avoid unfortunate lines or bunching, and I like a bit of belly coverage.  Nobody needs low-rider underpants.

I normally put some more thought into these things, but all of a sudden, while shopping for bras during a sale at La Senza, I lost my goddamn mind. 

My wardrobe overall isn’t frivolous.  As an adult, I have only two types of clothes in my closet - clothing that makes me look homeless and without hope but is so comfortable you wouldn’t even believe, and work clothes in a range of sizes. 

I used to have party clothes, slutty clothes, going out clothes, clothes for dates, clothes with sequins, going dancing clothes and vacation clothes.  Eventually, I ran out of room and had to narrow things down.  Not having space means thinking seriously about what you lose and what you add.

And I’ve now added crotchless panties. 

The word panties suggest actual material is involved – which is wrong. There is an approximate two-inch wide and six-inch long strip of pale pink lace meant to sit just below the belly button, for what I can only assume is modesty. 

Attached to the tiny strip of lace are two black, very thin elastic loops I have to carefully thread one leg into at a time.  Not that I’ve ever seized any  day by jumping into my underwear two legs at a time, but the delicacy of these tiny black straps and band aid sized lace makes me cautious. 

Once in place, there is a thin black strap on either side of my private bits and crossing over each butt cheek.  The butt cheek section is ornamental only– the straps neither lift nor separate.  For less packaging than normally exists to protect individual imported fruit at the grocery store, I paid $19.99 plus tax.    

Fortunately, I spent a good minute staring at the black plastic mannequin modeling this feat of sexy engineering so I knew exactly where everything should go before bringing them home.  One should be confident about crotchless panty mechanics, if not actual usage. 

There’s no instruction manual for just when or how to employ this type of lingerie.  It’s one of those things that if you’re straight up walking out of a store with crotchless panties and not the T-shirt bra you wandered in for, it should be assumed you know what the fuck you’re doing.

Women actually have a lot of guidance, just in case we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing in general. Creeping up constantly in my Pinterest and Facebook feeds are helpful links to articles and pointers for how aging women should be doing their makeup, getting their hair cut or dressing themselves so as to not be entirely invisible.

As I’m about to turn 42, I best pay attention.  Based on the apparent urgency driving these notices, I’m expecting very soon I’ll wake up with my face rearranged like a Picasso painting. 

If I ignore all the signs of aging and the advice on what to do about it, my left nostril WILL migrate to my hairline, and how am I supposed to know how to contour for that?

The hair on my dangerously middle-aged head is another issue I had no idea I needed to be concerned over.  Fortunately, suggested options for older women are refreshingly varied: a short bob, choppy bob, medium-short bob or layered short bob. 

When I inevitably die alone and feral cats are eating my face, a bob should be easy for them to get around. 

Clothing is trickier though, because I know I’m doing it wrong.  For example, fewer people look at me lately. 

Women will still occasionally size me up from my feet to my modestly bobbed head.  Sometimes I sense it’s a compliment and they’re wondering where I got my dress, and other times it’s likelier they’re wondering  how on earth I’m wearing those shoes with that dress, and why are my facial features all rearranged like a goddamn Picasso painting.

Men…men no longer notice me at all. It’s different than being ignored.  To be ignored, you have to be noticed in the first place.  All those beauty articles for the after 40 crowd aren’t about being sexy and attractive anymore – that window of time is apparently closed and painted over.  Instead, the messaging focuses on being completely inoffensive, standing out only as a means to avoid being hit by passing traffic.

To be certain, nobody gives a fraction of a shit about what kind of underwear I’m wearing.  

But I still do.  And the breeze is quite refreshing.