This spring my clothesline finally went back up, after a long hiatus due to back deck re-construction and a whole bunch of " maybe we'll get to it next weekend." Its the old-fashioned pulley type, the kind everyone had before fabric softener and dryers made fluffy towels all the rage and we ran out of most of our daylight hours spent at home. I can stand on the deck and send the wet laundry out toward the shed in the far corner, and reel it back in a few hours later smelling better than most anything I can think of... except maybe tiny babies, freshly powdered and mingling their own sweet scent with Johnson & Johnson's. I even like holding the spring clip clothespins that get warm from the sun, and the creaking whistle sound the pulleys make when I push the lines back and forth.
But, as happy as I am, it now all goes back to my panties. Well, probably even back further to my mother and that familiar admonishment, "Always wear nice underwear in case you're in an accident." Of course, she was under the somewhat misguided impression back then that no one would ever see my underwear unless I WAS in an accident.
So, I had to go through the whole drawer all of panties to determine which ones are "outside line worthy," and which ones probably shouldn't be worn even if I never rode in a moving vehicle again. They will be out there blowing in the breeze, gesturing to passerby and informing them of my style, my size, my penchant for color. Do they scream comfortable or sexy? Still-got-it vixen or past mommy and roaring right into granny? I can imagine what could run through the heads of those erstwhile panty surveyors as they observe my innocent lingerie hung out to dry. "Ah, sheer and barely there, who would have thought she'd be so naughty,." and "ohhh...I wonder if she's really as hot as those wild prints ." Some might be a little more cynical, "Uh huh, bikini briefs... so she can still hold her tummy in without looking like her eyeballs will pop." And I'm certain a few could be harsh, "Geez, those bloomers are blocking the sun and shading the entire yard... she better lay off the potato chips."
So I weeded out the old and went shopping for some new ones to properly convey my "underwraps" personality to the public who may take note of my laundry. It was an interesting trip into a number of intimate apparel specialty shops, apparently frequented by young things who wear all sorts of well...interesting...underpinnings. I have to say they make real sacrifices in comfort all in the name of lust. And, could someone please tell me what man (and it must be a man) invented the thong so I can hunt him down and strangle him with one? I perused racks of them in my age appropriate horror, and admit to being tempted to buy a few to hang on the line to embellish the clothesline persona I was shooting for. However, even vanity has its limits, and I'm not paying $34.00 for a string and a piece of lace not big enough to fit around my wrist. I'd rather spend it on a bottle of good wine that will quickly make me feel just fine in my little bit more substantial covering.
Lets just say that while Victoria probably doesn't want to know my secrets anymore, I can still make a respectably colorful showing without casting shadows on the flowers...and what my mother never knew won't hurt me.