I am ashamed about how ‘home grown” I am. Today a lady came to look at a car I have for sale while I was sweating away in the garage over an old bookcase. We got to chatting and I told her that my Daddy spent his life having his retired underwear used as dust rags in our home all stained with Old English. We chatted a bit about our dogs as well and I shared that I had owned a dog once that ate the waist bands to ALL of the family’s underwear while we were out on a Saturday excursion once and how I had to go to the Walmart with underwear pinned into my jeans with safety pins to stock up on new drawers for the entire family.
I am glad, however, that I get to select my own underwear at this stage of the game. I remember some of the underwear I got as a kid. My mom would go to the flea market and buy (in bulk) underwear from the textile mills of North Carolina that I now understand were seconds. Seconds, meaning there was SOMETHING wrong with them! I grew into my teen years thinking that one of my ass cheeks was freakishly bigger than the other and that painful (front) wedgies were normal. (I assume now that I was kissed by serendepity by getting undies with not enough crotch fabric.) Imagine my delight when I wore my first undies that were proportionate and didnt have cartoon characters on them with grotesquely smeared images.
I wonder about my sanity. I now have to face that my country-ass oversharing must be a cry for help.