Before we go any further, I have a confession to make:

As much as I’ve made fun of them in the past, I do, in fact, buy my underwears from Victoria’s Secret. Um, VS “Pink” to be exact.

I know, I know- for shaaaame, disgusting, dirty, wrong. Yeah. Apparently I have a 17-year-old’s taste in overpriced undergarmentry. What can it say? Bright colors, polka dots and sailor stripes do it for me. I think I’ve just seen The Umbrellas of Cherbourg one too many times, and it’s stunted my aesthetic development. I dunno, shit. And, asTailfeather said, “If you choose to enter Vicky’s Secret, you do so at your own peril, and you don’t come crying to me about the body rash that followed your purchase of a lavender sparkle-lace teddy with bow detail. For you, I feel nothing, and your pain I will mock.” I deserve what I get. Oh, and I’m about to tell you what I got…

Strap in, people, the TMI train is rolling out of Buttercup Station after the jump!

OK, so you remember how a few weeks ago I went on a long car trip to see my family? Yeah. Well, I anticipated going shopping with my sis, so I only packed my newer, cuter undies for those dressing room stall-sharing times that define the bonds of sisterhood, although I’m not about to let even my sister see my Sunday Laundry Day Drawz- the ones holey, faded ones with the elastic strings all poppin’ out, making them look like some kind of fringey Tina Turner hotpants. ANYWAY, I also underestimated how long I’d be stuck sitting and driving for, and also how goddamn, motherfucking HOT it was going to be down South. Long story short- after an entire sweltering weekend of my delicate ladyflower being suffocated in a cotton/poly/spandex/lycra-blend sweatlodge- I had me a nice infection going on down there.

Once home, and unfolded from the confinement of my tuna can car- I was grudgingly aware that Louisiana had given me a case of Swamp Crotch. “No wonder Britney doesn’t wear no damn drawz!” I thought as I peeled of the offending Pinkies and threw them into the bin. Now, I haven’t had a case of this crap since I was a young teen, so I was seriously pissed off to be reacquainted with this malady. I poured myself a warm bath and attempted to scrub away the itching to no avail thinking, “Now I know what Superman’s balls feel like.” So, I epilated my junk to an approximation of Lex Luther’s cranium (the better to medicate, mind you) and prepared myself for my War on Catbag Terror by going to meet my arms dealer – AKA Wal-Mart.

Yes, I shop at Wal-Mart. Mostly b/c where I live there are literally no other stores around, let alone any other store where I can buy a camouflage hat that says “Women love me, fish fear me” and organic produce all under the same roof in one, easy trip. So step off, Wal-Mart is my lifeline right now… I digress- Wal-Mart had the tools I needed. I was the guerilla militia leader, and Wal-Mart was the be-suited liason with the stainless steel briefcase and the map to the bunker filled with contraband. I flew into the store in a visible state of panic. Hunched grannies in line for their $4 Boniva flinched in my wake, seas of unsupervised children cluttering the shampoo aisle parted for me, and all of the consumable obstacles awash in florescent light seemed to drift away, until nothing stood between me and the Monistat. As I lifted my savior down from her dust-blanketed shelf, the haze that has occupied my mind ever since my gentle-bits caught fire lifted, and I was instead filled with rage at my old undergarments.

“What happened to them old underwears? The ones from before? From the days of yore? The ones I didn’t get sold out for? … Oh yeah, they’re right here! At Wal-Mart, waiting to be reunited with me!” I turned my cart out of pharmacy section entropy and rocketed towards the “Intimates” section with one craving burning up my soul- the hunger for 100% cotton drawz. I got to the wall of undie grab-bags and fell to my knees. “I have come to pray at the altar of Hanes Her Way,” I said. “I will never forsake you again.” But the Panty Gods were not appeased. I had been so long away from my undie roots, I had no idea what size I was. Worse yet, What cut was the cut for me? Hi-cut? Hipster? Modern Brief? Bikini? Yes, bikini. The word was so distantly familiar. I scanned the rack, and to my horror, could not find any size 5 bikinis in pretty colors. “WHYYYY?!” Uh, anyway, with the still burning sensation in my nethers, I decided I had to take what the Panty Gods would grace me with. I grabbed a baggie of 6 black and white solid bikinis. $7 is a small price to pay for what could amount to peace of mind and central air for the vadge, I gotta tell ya.

I washed them lovingly, and anxiously awaited for the dry cycle to finish so I could try them on. After the pull-on, I looked in the mirror and a small, choked sound escaped my throat- they are granny panties. Seriously. They come up SO HIGH. I’m not used to bending over and not feeling the undies slide forward to create a penny slot. In these drawz it’s impossible- the waistband stays put, and it’s just so high up there! In the front, there is really only an inch or two between my button and where my forever-underpants stop. It’s hilarious. My ass looks to have aged a few decades all of a sudden. It’s 1986 again underneath my clothes!

But you know what? Fuck it. My junk feels as fresh and breezy as a spring day, and I’ve found joy anew in exercising. See, trying to jog in a pair of VS panties is like being on a date with a really handsy guy- just when things are going really well, you have to stop what you’re doing and pry some probing lycra out of your ass crack. Hell, if left unchaperoned, a pair of VS Pinks would go straight up to your boobs in some as-yet-unheard-of kind of infinite, full-body wedgie. But my new Wal-Mart panties-in-a-bag? They respect my body. They stay in one place. They never move. You know, for being so covered up, I’ve honestly never felt more free.

PANTY RAID in the comments!!!