What’s worse: a perpetual wedgie or VPL? The great thong debate rages on…
“How can you not?” is my snarky, standard rejoinder to the oft-posed question, How can you wear a thong every day? But I have grown weary of deflecting. I am here to recount, at long last, the true story of my love affair with the maligned thong, the world’s most misunderstood article of lingerie.
I recall clearly the day my friend first introduced us in college. “Thongs are the best,” she crooned. “No underwear lines!”
Sheltered as I was in the middle-class enclave of my youth, I had not the faintest idea what she meant. Among the many meaningful lessons I learned in college—private school kids have a leg up; staying awake during chemistry is impossible; the freshman fifteen is alive and kicking—the crassness of underwear lines was revelatory. I bought a thong at my friend’s insistence and never looked, ahem, back.
Due to the peculiar, apparently conical shape of my enormous derriere, no matter what I do, regular underwear funnels down into the crack, forming a perpetual wedgie. The truth set me free: I had been wearing thongs my entire life. Massive, crumpled-up, cotton brief-shaped thongs. Compared to that, the sleek, quarter-inch string of my new infatuation was virtually undetectable. Thong for the win!
I have tried every shape and fabric of underwear under the sun. Cotton, microfiber, lace, cotton/poly blend. Regular bikini, string bikini, brief, high-cut, low-cut. Wedgie, wedgie, super wedgie, slightly less of a wedgie and still a wedgie. The newish “boy short” style seems to be my best option. But boy shorts of a size that will cover my prodigious rear ride too low on the front of my thighs, rolling up as soon as I take two steps. It’s like the camel toe of underwear lines. To fix that problem, I have to buy a size-too-small, resulting in a permanent plumber butt. That my husband thinks it’s cute is small consolation.
Apropos of size, a new reason has recently surfaced for wearing thong underwear. Before my son was born, I was a size small, but it’s going to be a cold day in Mephistophelesville before this ass sees that size again. Thongs take my butt—which currently accounts for about 70 percent of my total body mass—out of the equation, needing only to accommodate the less conspicuous layer of superfluous fat nestled on my hip bones. Instead of reducing myself to tears buying XXL bloomers from the mail-order catalogue on my 95-year-old Grandmother’s coffee table, I shrug, go online and choose Medium.
You might think my own clear-headed analysis would thwart and render inert the self-deception, but you would be wrong. I know I would not be a size medium in regular underwear, but I do not care. I fit into medium-sized thongs, therefore I am a size medium. The end.
And that, friends, is the true story of how I went from Wedge Queen to Empress of All Things Thong. Stop by my empire some time. You may find you like it.
Image © depositphotos.com/Genika.