My grandmother is trying to figure out what I want for Christmas. I guess I haven't been too helpful. "Nothing really. I'm fine." The thing is that I pretty much have all that I need and want. In fact, I'm perpetually purging as I attempt to simplify, simplify, simplify. When pressed, I told her that I could use paper, folders, pens and pencils since I am trying to get back into writing and such things are also quite handy when one is teaching college classes and homeschooling children.
My mother called me up this week and said that my grandmother wants to buy me jewelry. "Oh no! Tell her not to do that!" I almost never wear jewelry except for an occasional paganish pendant (and then mostly just to aggravate conservatives). I don't even wear my wedding band or engagement ring. Jewelry feels just too much. Too heavy. Too enslaving. Ever put a leash on a cat? If you have, you know of what I speak.
Then my mother tells me that my grandmother wants to buy me pretty underpants. What?!!! No! My god in heaven! I urged my mother to make it clear to Grandma that this is not the best choice for me.
Since my teen years I have been militant about this point. There is no reason I can discern (or respect) for wearing frilly underdoddies. Underpants serve a practical function which we needn't elaborate upon in this post. The "other purpose" of underthings I entirely reject. I have always believed that one wears underpants under one's clothes for a reason. When the underwear is visible to others, it should still decently cover one's person. If one's underpants are visible to a loved one with whom one wishes to be uncovered, typically that last remaining garment is on its way off the body and then it hardly matters anymore whether they were cotton briefs or lace whore pants. (Yes. whore pants. Some of you are into this kind of thing and probably think I'm a miserable prude. Well, I am a miserable prude. Don't get your knickers in a twist). I certainly will not spend my day picking a lacy thong out of my nether region so my partner can have a few seconds of thrill (although what is so thrilling about a few scraps of fabric is beyond me). If I can't make him happy with the equipment God gave me, tough shit for him.
In any case, I am just horrified by Grandma's notion that I would want such a garment and that I would want it from her! Ack!
Beyond that, this has taught me something about myself. I dislike the idea of frilliness for its own sake. It makes me physically and psychically uncomfortable to think of spending money on items that are meant only for frivolity or um...enhancement.
The world and its peoples are sliding headlong into a nightmare of poverty, ecological disaster and war. That's all I can think about all the time. I'm all twisted with anxiety for my children's future. Wearing satin on my arse sure as hell isn't going to make those feelings go away. At least with a notebook and a pen, I could write all about it.
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