Today a snitch made off with every single pair of earphones in the house.
So, I was forced to make up my own soundtrack on the daily jog. My thoughts were a pitifully sad state of affairs this morning. They went something like this:
"How does Padma Lakshmi look the way that she does?"
"In that butt shot scene in "Fast and Furious" where the woman is wearing satin yellow hot pants, what did she do exactly to make her inner thighs not touch all the way up to her crotch?"
"Exactly how much effort would I have to expend to lose the belly flap that has seemed to form after the birth of this third child ~ the high maintenance nature of it being that it requires applications of cornstarch powder throughout the day to keep it fresh?"
But mostly I thought about the pathetic state of affairs of my underwear drawer.
Some would correct me, saying that I should call it a "lingerie drawer." However, calling the contents of this drawer "lingerie" would sort of like be calling that Malibu Musk aerosol spray I purchased at the dollar store, "eau de parfum."
I first thought about the underwear situation a couple months ago, shortly after our monumental road trip from Iowa to Florida.
The said underpants had been carelessly (on my part) thrown into my friend Kaat's load of laundry and were not given another thought until I saw ~ with a horror that brought a stars into my vision ~ that she had very carefully folded my panties and set them apart from her clothes.
I stared at the neat little pile, speechless and mortified. They were the white, granny, multi-pack fare ~ the kind bought at Target for $4.99. The crotches were dingy and some even had holes in unmentionable places.
My panties have not always looked like this.
I remember with a sense of loss and remorse the panties I had purchased when my husband returned from Iraq. I even take them out and look at them every once in a while. I made the mistake once of trying one of them on recently. It made me throw up in my mouth a little. I took them off immediately.
The year he was gone was spent in the gym. All the lunges, running and weights had improved the general situation going on with my body to the point where I didn't mind the full-length mirror in the bathroom so much anymore. It wasn't a bikini bod, by any means, but it was satisfactory.
I blame the Brazilian butt bikinis for getting me knocked up on the very first day that my husband came home.
That was the end of my adorable Victoria Secret lingerie stash, because I was immediately green with morning sickness and anything that wasn't waist high wasn't comfortable enough.
The lace, frilly pairs of panties were packed away in a box and were not thought of again until this morning when I was forced to be left alone with my own thoughts on my jog.
The thoughts should have made me go a little bit further or longer, but they didn't. I came back early to make them mercifully stop.
Oh, and I have a lot of laundry to do; I'm out of clean underwear.