A cheeky deBRIEF on wasting your best undies on a boring day

Getting your favourite panties in a squandered wad . . .


Written by Paige Riding

Victoria’s Secret is out: today, my high hopes were crushed by an overwhelming sense of mediocrity. The day was so bland that I know — or rather, I should have known — that some granny panties would have done the trick. 

If this day were an actor, it would be Nicolas Cage. If this day were a meal, it would be a fine selection of day-old white bread dipped in lukewarm water. But the worst part of it? I wore, and therefore wasted, my Favourite Pair™ of underwear on it.

This undergarment decision was not even for validation from some “here for a good time, not a long time” bio-wielding Tinder hook-up that I chose out of mixed self-hatred and boredom. Panties like these are for my own self-confidence, my own pleasure when I remember that under these Old Navy jeans resides a brand of bad bitchery that I rock for myself. 

Lace is not for the faint of heart. It is not for that Tuesday when you have the same leftover pasta for lunch and dinner — except that the pasta isn’t quite microwaved right, resulting in a texture reminiscent of the eraser on a pencil’s rear. Lace sets expectations that, if let down, result in utter, complete, overwhelming devastation.

If my body is a temple, then this sweet lace is the gold embellishments of the inner shrine.

According to the Daily Mail, our base chakra lies just where our underwear sits on our bodies. This piece of cotton, more than an article of clothing, is a symbol of success, a harbinger of the energy for the proceedings of the day, a silent anthem muted beneath pants. 

Black, grey, and white undies fail the vibe check. That cheeky aqua pair, though . . . that may just do the trick to get over an ex. Polka-dots? Iconic. Floral patterns? Swoon. Tie-dye? M . . . maybe. 

Whatever your poison, we all have our favourite pair that has been there for us when nobody else was. The wild paradox of covering up our bums, that unifying moment when fabric meets skin, becomes like an intimate, liberating contract with the self. To dedicate such a perfect pair of underwear to this particular day raises my spirits. It gives me more hope than Trudeau did when he first graced us with his charismatic smile and dreams for Canada back in 2015. It sets me up to be let down harder than I let down my team for a group project.

The belief that today will be exciting enough for hot pink panties to grace the scene leaves me devastated when the world does not follow suit. I mean, I will get over it. But only after laundry days: that is, laundry day plus the many days where the pile of freshly laundered items sits on my chair instead of in my dresser. I’m talking weeks of my life stunted by a day of plainness, of the boring, the underwhelming, the bland. Such a day left my favourite pair tapped out for a time. 

If this is my punishment for being the least bit idealistic, holding onto some shred of optimism to glimmer from inside my typical shrewd cynicism, then shame on me. Shame on me and my underwear. 

What a shame, indeed.

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