Admission: I am fanatical about bras and panties. Men don’t really understand this, and I think that despite what Victoria’s Secret would like you to think, if men get you in your underwear, they don’t care what brand you’re wearing or whether they match.
So obviously, my husband has never supported my obsession with having to buy a pair every single time we go to a department store. In fact, we haven’t visited Target in months simply because he thinks I don’t need any more panties. I disagree, however, because the one day I slept in late and didn’t do laundry—the one day I rolled out of bed, showered and put on my old, worn, mismatched undergarments—was the one day I had to show them off to everybody.
I was participating in the Guadalupe Buddist Church Obon Festival. I practiced for six weeks learning the dances that we’d perform at the festival. The dances are beautiful and graceful. Then, as if it couldn’t get any more beautiful, there are the costumes, summer kimonos called yukata. I was wearing a long pale pink silk kimono, but I was warned that it was hot. Not that I’d be getting cat calls and sexy whistles but that I should probably not wear anything underneath to keep as cool as possible. I shed my clothes donned the kimono and soon a tiny Japanese woman was binding me into the getup. I was cinched, stuffed, and tied into my costume. I inhaled as she tied the sash and when it was finally tied I realized I wouldn’t be able to exhale—at least not until I was out of the getup. But I’m a girl and any girl who has ever shimmied into a pair of skinny jeans or shoved her feet into a size-too-small pair of heels knows that exhaling is overrated.
As I expected, the dance was a blast, but I couldn’t wait to get out of my kimono when it was all done. I scrambled out of my kimono pulling off sashes, ties, and ribbon, and modesty be damned I pulled off the kimono and let out a breath of relief. That is until I looked down and realized my clothes were gone. I quickly pulled my kimono shut again, gripping it as I looked around trying not to panic. I wasn’t seeing my clothes anywhere. I got everyone involved and as we looked for my clothes, all I could think of was the scene from one of my favorite books—To Kill a Mockingbird. Scout, the young girl in the book, was in a school play and her clothes were stolen and she had to walk home from the performance in her costume—a ham. Unfortunately, I didn’t even have a ham to wear home. All I had were my mismatched laundry day undies.
I walked back outside to the festival, where crowds of people were standing in the brilliant sun, enjoying teriyaki chicken and the underrated experience of being fully clothed, and found my sister Dee Dee and my boys. I explained the situation; that my clothes were missing and they would have to wait a few more minutes.
Dee Dee wanted me to stop for a drink with her at the local Moose Lodge and my boys were pretty much ready to go and play. When I told them what had happened, they reacted the way, in hindsight, I would have expected them to. My boys made a poor effort of stifling their laughter and my sister didn’t say a word but instead smiled, pulled out her phone, and began texting—I assume—every person we’ve ever met in our lives and some of her friends I haven’t met, spreading the word that somebody had stolen my clothes.
After a lot of searching—do you realize how long any search is when you are standing in your underwear clutching a robe around your bosom?—we determined that someone probably mistakenly grabbed my clothes with their things and left. So I was given another, lighter-weight yukata to wear home with a slip underneath that barely concealed my pink panties. (Whenever these things happen to me, and they have happened before, I’m always wearing pink panties, which should tell me that I should never ever wear pink panties, but somehow I never learn this).
I met up with my sister and my boys who were confused that I was not yet dressed. I told them my clothes were never found and that I just wanted to go home. So they tried to hide their sniggering as I walked ahead of them toward my car. As we walked through the park I felt the bright summer sun, the slight coolness of the shade as I walked under the trees and my mind was put straight. It was an unbelievable blessing of a day; it was fun, aside from the clothes-missing thing, and I was with some of my favorite people. Clothes or no clothes, I thought, life is pretty sweet.
Then Dee Dee in her Dee Dee way, asked, “So are we still going to get a cocktail?”
Stunned, I answered, “I’m wearing a see-through kimono with pink panties underneath!”
And in her special way of rationalizing she answered, “So?”
And this is the part where I really wish I could’ve said I was brave enough to walk into the Moose Lodge with my two sons and my sister, wearing my kimono and pink panties, and confidently ordered a martini. Instead, I spied my car and quickly ducked into it, waved at my sister and drove home vowing to order a few dozen sets of new, pretty undergarments. Life is wonderful, experiences are amazing, but some of them you really feel better experiencing—at the very least—with matching underwear. m
Arts Editor Shelly Cone didn’t order a martini in a kimono but has ordered a mojito in a sarong. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com
This article appears in Aug 11-18, 2011.