I Know Victoria’s Secret
I’ll get right to it: I believe in wearing pretty underwear. Twelve winters ago I was with my family on a scenic train ride through the Teton Mountains. I was a six-year-old, whining about the cold, so my mom tried to calm me with a cup of hot chocolate. I eagerly wrapped ten tiny fingers around the cool Styrofoam and put the cup to my lips without hesitation. Instead of a pleasant sip of chocolaty goodness, however, my mouth was filled with fiery liquid. Startled, I dropped the cup, splashing it all over my purple B.U.M. Equipment sweat suit. Before it could seep onto my skin, my mother’s nursing instincts kicked in and she swiftly stripped nearly every layer of clothing from my skinny, goose-bumped body in thirty seconds flat. Clad only in my white Hanes-Her-Way underwear with fifty pairs of foreign eyes penetrating me, I was cold, naked, and mortified. I would rather have burned.
Until I was able to buy my own panties, I always dreaded shopping for them with my mother. Even now, I shudder when I pass the Hanes section in Wal-Mart. Once I could buy my own underwear, though, I was on a mission: I was going to discover Victoria’s Secret. I began choosing exquisite panties, pieces of fine art. My pretty-panty-buying binges became frequent. Though sometimes expensive, I found them necessary therapy to cope with years of white cottony torture.
I wear pretty underwear.
And I am a happier woman for it.
Wearing pretty underwear is my form of self-appreciation. It’s an easy way to treat myself, fairly inexpensive as well as practical, so I can do something good for me without having to deal with a shot bank account after it’s all said and done. I can have a different pretty pair for every day of the month and never have to sacrifice a chunk of my hard-earned money.
Pretty underwear knows no match. Every woman starts the day with a blank canvas. Some choose to beautify from the start, while others skimp on the areas that are unseen from the outside and pretend that what’s underneath has no effect on the final product. I’m a believer in details. I don’t understand how a person can start the day pulling on a pair of gray granny-panties without feeling a tad less of a woman. Even if no one besides me sees my perfectly posh undies each day, going about my day knowing that underneath it all, I am the epitome of sexy femininity makes wearing them so worth it.
So here’s to all you ratty-panty-loving misers: treat yourself like a woman deserves to be treated. Wear pretty underwear. You never know when you will end up naked and cold with fifty pairs of eyes drawing conclusions about you based on the panties you’re wearing. Take it from me—leave a lasting impression. You never know when you might get caught with your pants down.
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