POEM A DAY – April 27

It’s Time

The plastic dollar store basket I keep my underwear in is overflowing, overstuffed with various sets of six styles of underwear purchased to support my wavering waist, period-puffed and peri-menopausal. The Hanes in bright hues, polka-dotted and pretty lose the elasticity and bottom-sag by 4pm. The costco brand earth tones are too big, but soft as cotton balls and fall below my bottom-belly and bunch in the crotch by 3pm. It’s the amazon brand that takes the cake but there aren’t enough for a 7-day stretch and who has time for laundry amidst all the hormone rage and puppy-sitting? Not me. So today, in honour of adulting, I am away-ing all the silly undergarments that give me grief. I need brief relief. I am mentioning the unmentionables in a poem about accepting the fate of my panty partnership: if all my undies are the same, if all my undies fit, if all my undies are comfy cotton crotch-strong skivvies, I have one less thing to worry about each day. I’m into less worrying, damnit. Permission to provide panty perfection granted. By tomorrow noon, my basket of drawers will be delightfully proficient.