by Una LaMarche
In my defense, this has actually happened once. Not the FBI cronut part, but having to strip down to my skivvies without prior notice. It was a night of after-work drinking that took an especially drunken turn and ended up at an indoor pool in the lobby of a Times Square hotel. It was not one of the eighteen days a year that I managed to coordinate underwear patterns, so I was rocking a black bra and a red bathing suit bottom, a choice that under other circumstances (FBI, cronut) might have been embarrassing but which actually proved useful in this instance since I was, in fact, swimming (or, at least, sitting in water, drinking Jameson). Also, it turned out to be Gay Night at the swim-up bar, so no one even glanced in my direction. All in all, it was a triumph, assuming you don’t count the fact that I threw up in my purse on the subway ride home.
This obsession with being intimately prepared should a sexy EMT have to cut me out of my clothes to administer a defibrillator led me to shun comfort briefs—i.e., the “granny panty”—until very recently. Maybe it’s that I had a baby; once you have three or more people staring directly into your taint as a human head fights its way out of the birth canal, I guess being seen in any underwear looks pretty good by comparison. Or maybe it’s just that they’re like genital sweatpants: comfy, dependable, and devoid of any artifice or pretense. Whatever it is, I love them. And I’m not afraid to say it.
There is no other piece of clothing that gets as little respect as the GP, but grannies have a lot to teach us. They still practice proper penmanship and send handwritten thank-you notes. They can make everything from chocolate chip cookies to roast beef without consulting a cookbook, let alone the Internet. They don’t recognize “the Situation” as a person and wisely stay away from jeggings. So why not follow their lead when it comes to undergarment selection?
I already know what you’re going to say. The granny panty is notorious for being a sexual deal-breaker. Legend has it that if a paramour rips your dress off to reveal a pair of waist-high, Band-Aid-colored briefs, he or she will recoil in disgust and leave you to weep into your Häagen-Dazs along with your seventeen cats. But, ladies, show me someone who gets as far as your panties and then decides to call it a night, and I will show you someone who is either unconscious or not attracted to people of your gender.
I fell in love with the GP while pregnant, for its full and forgiving coverage of my expanding assets (something no one tells you: when you’re pregnant your growing belly pulls your pubic hairline up a good two inches). But I love them even when I’m not carrying an extra forty pounds, and here’s why:
1.They’re roomy. Like drop-crotch pants, I imagine, but less embarrassing to wear in public.
2.They’re comforting. The granny panty is to the vagina what sweatpants are to the legs, or mac and cheese is to the stomach, assuming you’re not lactose intolerant.
3.They’re trendy. Yes, I said trendy. What are Spanx if not unnaturally tight granny panties? Think about it.
Sure, Sisqo never wrote a song about them, but is that really a bad thing? Embrace the space. Respect the stretch. Lose the scanty panty. Grandma knows best.
Read Fashion Magazines with a Sense of Humor
I have a love/hate relationship with women’s magazines. I love how thick and glossy they are, filling my mailbox with the intoxicating scent of perfume and the promise of a lazy afternoon spent looking at candy-colored baubles and the freakishly static planes of Nicole Kidman’s face. But I hate how vapid they can be, assuming that women don’t appreciate wit or sarcasm, pretending that we don’t notice that they just publish the same fucking “Easy Summer Beauty” or “No-Diet Diet” articles every single issue with different pictures, and assuming that if they were to run a single photo of a real woman or plus-size model it would undo all the subtle hate-your-body messages they’ve been sending for decades.
Sometimes, though, if you look for it, they are hilarious. I have taken the liberty of penning a literal explanation of one particularly choice headline:
How to Wear a White Shirt (June 2010 Allure)
1.Go to closet; open it.
2.Pick out a shirt (the item of clothing with no legs that isn’t long enough to cover your ass) that is not red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, black, brown, pink, or any of the aforementioned colors in pastel. Also avoid prints. Pick something the color of clouds, only not rain clouds . . . or sunset-reflecting clouds. Hmm, that could get confusing. Okay, pick something the color of fresh fallen snow that has not been peed on.
3.Does the shirt button up the front? In that case put your arms in the holes and then fasten all the buttons. If there are no buttons, stick your head in the top hole and your arms in the side holes and pull the front down over your chest and stomach.
4.Oh, wait, do you have breasts? If so, reverse step 3 and put on a bra first. Since your shirt is white, your bra must be that fetching shade of beige that recalls leftover flan, in order not to show through.
5.Ta-da! You’re done. Except for pants, which will be discussed in next month’s issue.
Stop Before You Drop or Crop
You may remember near the beginning of this story that I mentioned having once cropped my high school track sweats, thus turning something with a natural drop-crotch into a crop-drop-crotch pant. And it’s frankly amazing I’m even alive to type this, since it’s the fashion equivalent of staring into a dark bathroom mirror and shouting “Bloody Mary” thirteen times.
Let’s start with crop tops. People who wear them are shameless braggarts. First of all, they’re mocking those of us with a strong nostalgic affection for the fashion of the early 1990s, but more important, they are choosing to highlight—out of all possible exposed flesh on the human body—the abdominals, which is probably collectively our worst feature. Historically, the abdomen helps us breathe, stand up reasonably straight, cough, poop, and sing. It does not need to win any beauty contests, and it definitely does not need to look like a relief map of the Rocky Mountains. If you want to show off your abs, go to the beach.
Next: cropped pants. These are less offensive, but have you really ever met anyone over age eleven whose legs look great cut off midcalf? Here’s a test: Google “Angelina Jolie capri pants” and you will not find a single image.
On to drop-crotch pants: Justin Bieber apparently suffers from elephantiasis of the testes, or else he requires a colostomy bag, I don’t know. Seriously, drop-crotch pants, what is your game? What are you hiding in there? Adult diapers? Vestigial tails? Crowning babies? Look, I get it; my mom always told me my vagina needed to breathe (which was really confusing before I realized she was being figurative), but I didn’t know I needed to stow an iron lung down there.
In fact, might I suggest—if you’re in the market for extra crotch room and require the ability to move both legs at once—a pair of fleece-lined, extra-large Old Navy brand sweatpants? They can be had for a pittance, yet savored for a lifetime.
JEAN SHORTS: A USER’S LOSER’S GUIDE
The only hard-and-fast rule I know about summer clothing is that it’s okay to wear white shoes only between Memorial Day and Labor Day.
I don’t know who decided this—probably the same old rich dudes who find it acceptable to attend yacht parties wearing pastel-colored khakis embossed with tiny lobsters and schooners.
Anyway, the white-shoe thing isn’t even a problem for me, because wearing white shoes in New York City is a dangerous game. After a week, your virginal footwear will take on the fetching, mottled gray hue of diseased pigeon (incidentally one of New York’s most prized indigenous species).
Seriously, this is what a combined photo of the two of us would look like, to scale.
My summer style conundrum can be summed up in two words: jean shorts. I love jean shorts . . . in theory. In theory, as soon as I put them on I look like Gisele Bündchen from the waist down. In theory, my skin turns from the color of tracing paper to the color of fine sco
tch, and my legs grow two feet, like Inspector Gadget’s do when he needs to climb over tall things. But this is all in theory. In reality, even doing my modeliest pose I resemble an albino Munchkin when compared to Her Leggyness. And in those photos I’m wearing store-bought jean shorts. So you can imagine how dire the situation is when I wear cutoffs I made myself. Wait, you know what? Why bother imagining? Let me show you.
OH NO, SHE DIY-DN’T! (JEAN SHORTS MISTAKES TO AVOID)
Please note: lest you think I’ve succumbed to TTDT (Thighs That Don’t Touch) disease, know that I’m purposefully standing with my legs apart in these photos, for vanity purposes.
Chastity Shorts
Paranoid about accidentally cutting too short (see the Truck Stop Jailbait on page 148), you may end up with unflattering—albeit Vatican-appropriate—jean-Jams.
This is a hell-to-the-no style for all but the most coltish among us. Try again.
The Fraternal Twins
If you’re anything like me, you don’t use measuring tape or even a ruler; you just eyeball the length and hack away. This can result in an Arnold Schwarzenegger–Danny DeVito situation.
It can also result in . . .
The Mullet
“Oh, hey!” you may be saying to yourself. “These look okay.” But that is just your eyes deceiving you. Seen from a side angle, unscientific cutting has led to an uneven, Richard Dean Anderson effect.
The Truck Stop Jailbait
The only thing worse than leaving shorts too long is making the question “Who wears short shorts?” rhetorical.
(Fun story: I went to the NYC gay pride parade with my uncles in the mid-nineties, and a gentleman was wearing shorts so short his balls were hanging out of one side. Innocence lost!)
AN OPEN LETTER TO ROMPERS
Hello, Rompers,
I saw you on the street today. A woman was wearing you. You were orange and strapless, with a not-insignificant boob ruffle. I glared at you as you passed, but you didn’t notice. Then again, how could you? You were too busy multitasking. I’m sure that manifesting as a tube top and Daisy Dukes simultaneously takes its toll.
I shouldn’t have been surprised to see you, but I wasn’t prepared. When I first heard about you back in 2009, I thought, Ha-ha-ha-ha, no way is that a thing. Someone at Marie Claire has been hitting the oxygen facials a little too hard. Surely no grown woman would willingly wear a garment defined as “a loosely fitted one-piece having short bloomers that is worn especially by small children for play.” But then Blake Lively showed up in you at a formal event and I knew it was over.
Last summer, I thought maybe you’d relent. I hoped against hope that some other trend would replace you—perhaps Anthropologie color-blocked lederhosen, old-timey unitard bathing suits, or full-body vajazzling accessorized with those shoes Lady Gaga favors that have no heel and appear to be crafted from vinyl-covered ox hooves. But no. You came back stronger than ever.
I’d find myself fondling what I thought was a dress in Forever 21 only to recoil in horror as my fingers stumbled upon a crotch seam. I confessed my despair to my husband, who seemed supportive until we happened across a frilly lavender version of you while on vacation. You were on sale. “We’re buying this,” my husband declared gleefully. He made me wear you defiantly as he snapped photos. I left you at the beach rental “by accident.”
So forgive me, but when I saw you today I was taken aback. When are you planning on leaving, exactly? It’s been six years now. Will you not rest until every American woman has to get fully naked in order to use the bathroom? Until babyGap is forced to expand its “onesies” section to include plus sizes? Until Blake Lively wets herself at the Teen Choice Awards? O Rompers, Rompers. Wherefore art thou, Rompers? Deny thy unitard and refuse thy belts.
You’ve overstayed your welcome. It’s time for you to take your spaghetti straps and your fluttery leg holes and go back to toddlers where you belong.
Love, Una
Free to Be Poo and Pee
A Guide to Public Restroom Usage for Classy Ladies
I pride myself on doing things “better” than everyone else, and this extends to peeing in public bathrooms. Like any normal person, I take my time when in the comfort of a private space, but when there’s a line (or even when there might be another person waiting when I get out, as in a restaurant), I perform the equivalent of urinary wind sprints. After waiting ten minutes for the lady in front of me to create a batch of carefully brewed artisanal pee, I enter the stall like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep, in and out in sixty seconds. It’s time, as mature women of the world, that we all got potty trained.
Before you get defensive, I’m not suggesting that everyone should race through the motions. You could sprain your groin or—worse!—get pee on the seat. But a little self-awareness never hurt anyone. So I’m going to share with you my three tenets for efficient and respectful ladies’ room usage:
1.Speed
2.Cleanliness
3.Common Fucking Sense
Speed
Like I just said, there is no need to aim for my unique and freakish devotion to bathroom time trials. However, a public restroom—especially one that accommodates only one person at a time—is not the place to sit and contemplate your thoughts or show off your penis-etching skills. We all know that women only poop in public bathrooms under duress (more on this in a minute), so I’m going to assume that this is a “number one” situation. Go ahead and enjoy the release. Let it out. But as soon as it’s over, get up and get moving. Wash your hands, dry them, and go. This is not the time for reapplying foundation or texting your sister. A quick mirror check for visible stains or missing teeth, a swipe of lip balm, and a blot with a paper towel and you should be out the door.
Cleanliness
Women come in many shapes, sizes, and colors, but they come in only two kinds when they step into a public restroom: those who sit and those who hover.
I myself am a sitter, and I don’t use those disposable toilet seat covers, either. My rationale is that if you just sit down, no bodily fluids will get on the seat, hence you will be much less likely to get herpes, or someone else’s pee on your butt. However, I realize that people are very passionate about this issue, and I acknowledge that some women would sooner give Gary Busey a full-body massage than let their flesh touch a toilet seat used by strangers. Fine. Go to town. Layer six of those suckers on the seat. Hover ’til your thighs turn to jelly. But afterward, I want you to do me a favor: look at the toilet. Have the seat covers been flushed away, or are they still sitting there like a damp sofa cushion made of tissue? Are there droplets of pee on the seat? If this was a dreaded “number two” scenario, could the bowl be fairly classified as a brunette? Did you just change a tampon, and, if so, would that be immediately apparent to anyone else?
If you answer yes to any of these questions, you are not done yet. Clean it up.
Common Fucking Sense
Those toilet seat covers have a middle part. It should be torn away before use, unless your goal is to collect your golden bounty and share it with others via festive streams down the bowl and onto the floor.
Locks. Use them, love them. I no more want to walk in on you than I want you to spend thirty seconds jiggling the door handle while I am trying to coax the last few droplets out so that they don’t decide to make their appearance during a business meeting while I’m wearing a thong. Which brings me to . . .
Locks. Know how they work. If the door will not open, it is locked. This means ocupado. Stand and wait your turn.
As for the dreaded deuce, from nine to five we act like we’re born without colons, just like we try to convince our paramours that we were born without leg hair. But this doesn’t save us from the psychological torture of navigating the ladies’ room.
I’m speaking, of course, of the Poop Stall. Hear me out.
Let’s say a public ladies’ r
oom has three stalls—pretty standard.
If a woman—let’s call her Lady A—goes into an empty bathroom with three stalls she will always take the stall closest to the door. That way she can get out quickly if there is a freak toilet fire or a pack of assassins or—God forbid—Harry Connick Jr., waiting to strangle her with chicken wire (thanks a lot, Copycat, for giving us extra bathroom anxiety). The stall closest to the door also conveniently provides a buffer stall in the event that someone else comes in.
If Lady A is pooping, however, she will take the stall farthest from the door. It is just one of those inexplicable laws of nature, like gravity or neon frogs that kill you if you lick them.
Let’s assume, however, for the sake of argument, that Lady A is not pooping in this particular scenario. So she takes the first stall. Then, in comes Lady B. Lady B must take the Poop Stall, even though she is not pooping. The presence of another person already occupying the first stall temporarily lifts the stigma of the Poop Stall and it simply becomes the Stall That Is a Nonthreatening Distance from the Other Person in the Bathroom.
But wait! Lady A finishes up and leaves the bathroom. Oh no! Now Lady B is in the Poop Stall with no mitigating factor!
Then Lady C comes in. She sees Lady B in the Poop Stall and comes to the only rational conclusion, which is that Lady B is pooping. Lady B, at this point, is beside herself. This anxiety shuts off her urethra and prevents her from being able to audibly pee, which is even more damning.
The only thing that can save Lady B now is a surprise appearance by Lady D, who takes the middle stall, thus restoring balance to the ladies’ room ecosystem and neutralizing the tension between Ladies C and B (even though C still thinks B is pooping).