My mind works in a funny way. Not ‘Oh Dwight, you’re so funny’ as much as ‘Holy crap, what’s wrong with you?’ sort of way.
I’ll be watching TV and something will remind me of something from a hundred years ago, so out of the blue I’ll start telling Joannie about it, usually starting in the middle of a thought just to make it more confusing, but of course she doesn’t see the connection that my oddly warped mind made, so then I have to explain how I got there in the first place.
This story is like that, so just hang on it may be a bumpy ride.
Yesterday was really windy, and while most girls out were wearing pants, a few had on dresses and skirts. On more than one occasion a hemline went a good deal higher than was planned. In old voyeuristic man-talk, that’s a good day.
So I went home happy and was bragging to Joannie about all the underwear I’d seen, and to pour a little water on my parade she said, “you know, they probably were wearing panties they wanted to be seen”.
This is where the story jumps back 40 years, so hold on.
The setting, Fallbrook High School. I was in class one day, and at some point I was talking to a couple of classmates, and one of them, a boy, commented to the girl, who shall remain nameless, that he could see her underwear. She rolled her eyes and took the hem of her skirt in both hands, lifted it to her waist, and said, “It’s a leotard, you idiot!” Clearly her message was, it doesn’t matter if you can see my panties; they are meant to be seen.
So back to present day, and I told Joannie what I told that unnamed young lady back in the day, “We don’t care. Guys just don’t make that fine distinction in our headbones. Panties are panties, meant to be seen or not, and we are grateful to see them.
And by the way, that unnamed lady of yesteryear may well be reading this, and if you are and remember that it was you, thanks again.