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Lessons From Going Commando
It’s a dirty business.
The other day three young 20-somethings were having an animated conversation and I overheard this exchange:
Girl A: “She never wears underwear. Like ever.”
Girl B: “Seriously never?”
Girl C: “She airs it 24/7?”
Girl A: “Yep. She said she hasn’t worn underwear in a year.”
Girl B: “That sounds like a lot of laundry.”
Exactly, Girl B.
Unless this gal is like five years old and puberty plops have not yet begun, how does she not leave a trail like a snail wherever she goes? In fact, how does any woman?
I don’t get it.
I have never understood Going Commando since the first time I had a conversation about it when I was a 20-something myself. And then a few years ago a good friend of mine showed up to my 50th birthday party and at some point announced she was undie free––wearing white pants no less.
My response to her, and anyone else who’s asked about it, was:
“I could never do that. My lady part drips like a tapped maple tree.”
Ditching the undies has always sounded like dirty business to me. I like to keep my shit wrapped tight. Enclosed, but breathing.
