Fling, Fling a Thong

I never wanted to wear my mother’s clothes, and I have no doubt she never would have wanted to be seen in anything that I wore. Growing up, I wore small tops and tight jeans – tight by choice (unlike now, where they are just plain tight and getting tighter by the day). She wore house dresses when we first moved to the farm, and continued to do so until she was truly christened into our new lifestyle – by being scooped up and dropped into the horse trough by our new neighbor. It really was a rite of passage... and ended the house dress era in our home.

Our clothes change as we age. You can’t deny it. Four-inch heels are replaced with sensible pumps, then flats. Shirts become looser, and you start to get more bang for your clothes-purchasing dollar – at least for the most part.

Don’t get me wrong. I know there are some who age to perfection, who don’t wrinkle or bag, who don’t slouch or sag. I notice every freaking one of them. As discussed before, it seems rather realistic to accept that these things are going to happen. It doesn’t mean that we think of our bodies as ancient ruins as opposed to temples, but it does mean perhaps a bit more window dressing is needed. Our hair volume and texture does change. Our skin elasticity also changes. None of this is something to be ashamed of.

That said, and please know I say this with much love... as we grow older there are some things that we just should not wear. First – this cannot be stressed enough – pants should not be worn with the crotch at the knee by anyone of any age. I really don’t care what color underwear you may be wearing (although I am thankful that there is something there providing a border between my eyes and the crack of don). Speedos, unless you are a competitive swimmer, or Antonio Banderas, should simply not be allowed. Sorry to be the one to break it to you, guys, but the greatest marketing boondoggle in the history of time was the convincing of men that anyone could wear a Speedo. While half-shirts may look okay on a sixteen year old, with tight skin, toned tummy and a naughty little bellybutton ring poking out, for the majority of us, they are absolutely not doing what we think, or hope, they are. The quarter rule should apply to all these fashions, just like it does to a marine’s bed: if the quarter snaps right back and lands in your hand when bounced on the matters (or stomach), then you’re okay to show it off. Otherwise, drop and give me twenty.

There is one fashion statement though, that i will never grasp, especially when we no longer have those supple strong sixteen year old bodies. Could someone please explain to me the value of a thong? The girls like to have them riding up the hips over the waistline so we can all see them. The guys... well, thank god they don’t wear them with the damned pants that have the crotch at the knees. What, though, is a thong supposed to do? What is the pleasure of being trussed up like a turkey, with those skinny little straps digging into the skin, straining with each movement? For some of us, it would require a long and dangerous expedition just to find the damned thing once we’ve put it on. You have no support, no... nothing, other than what has to be the most galactic wedgie in the world. I refuse to believe that they don’t ‘inch up’ every time you sit down, so that a wrong movement could have you singing two octaves higher.

There is sometimes merit in trying to recapture our youth. For those of us (I use a royal us because I definitely don’t fall into this category) who manage to maintain a modicum of a girlish figure as we age, by all means, take pride in how you look... but is the thrill of showing off to the other septuagenarians at the scrabble tournament really worth spending the day trying to discretely adjust the piece of material that is woefully imbedded in the cheeks of your butt?

With age comes the ability to understand the value of balancing fashion with function. I remember well the dances where your feet ached from the must-have shoes that are really nothing more than torture devices and bunion builders. We can still look good, but can we at least agree that we don’t need to do ourselves a serious thong injury in the process?

“IF YOU SHOUT LOUDER, THEY MIGHT ACTUALLY HEAR YOU”

I am not talking about the grubs, although they certainly have selective hearing. I am talking about, sadly... the television set.

I remember growing up, watching my dad watch television... well, ‘watching’ might be the wrong word. He would yell at it. He would correct the news anchor about the proper pronunciation of a name. He would tell the quarterback what play to make and who to make it to. He would call the weatherman an idiot. I even remember, yes, him gathering us around the television set, demanding absolute silence, on August 8^th, 1974, to listen to Richard Milhous Nixon resign as President of the United States. He demanded absolute silence... from us. Dad, however, made sure the errant POTUS was perfectly clear about the truth as Dad saw it. How do I remember this? It was just one of those things that was permanently stamped in my brain, but I also have a cassette tape with the speech on it, taken while I had to hold the little microphone up to the set through the whole damned thing, wishing the stupid asshole would just say he was a crook and a criminal and he was pulling the pin. My dad knew this would be a historic moment. He had no idea that, forty years later, it would be available to anyone at the touch of a computer key.

Now, don’t get me going on politics. When Dad watched politics on the television, it was just safer to go in the kitchen and start washing the dishes, or folding laundry. You did NOT want to vacuum floors... because he couldn’t hear over the vacuum to know what to yell at them, although something tells me he would have managed. My dad was passionate, and he had expectations, and television brought into his living room the epitome of stupidity every night. For me, however, there was no need to make a sound when watching... because you might miss something that one of Charlie’s Angels said as they solved the case, or you might not hear the cheap shot that Hutch was taking at Starsky. Television was to be watched, absorbed, and treasured, because you only got an hour or two a day, if there was anything worth watching on those two precious channels. I knew, though, without doubt, I would NEVER talk to the damned set.

Televisions have changed. They are bigger and flatter and clearer, and Lord knows, we have a lot more channels, which equates to a whole lot more crap to watch. I am not sure if it was during those pregnant years, when you have your feet up and General Hospital on the set that it happens. One day, you are quietly watching something on the old idiot box, and the next, you are screaming at Holly to not trust that bastard, Robert, because he is sleeping with Anna and she is nothing but trouble. “Don’t do it, Holly! He’s a slime! Hot... but a slime just the same!” It sneaks up on you... a comment at a soap opera, then the weatherman telling you to expect sunshine, while little rivers run down the picture window pane. How can you NOT scream at him for that? ‘Open your god damned window, you moron!’

To be fair to my father, I know he was concerned. He cared what was happening. He wanted his politicians to be honest, his bankers to be fair. He understood the intricacies of political debate and campaign mud-slinging, which, at my delicate, innocent young age I simply could not grasp. Now, however, I grasp just fine, and I have to say, those idiots on the television drive me crazy. The stupid crooks, the lying politicians, the slime-dogs and whore-wanna-be starlets who flash their panties at us, and i cannot leave out those incredibly annoying Viagra commercials and the Cialis bathtub shit (what the hell is that about anyways)... it is impossible to watch and NOT scream at them. To be totally honest, with the wisdom we have now gained, the insight, the retrospect, the chops we have cut, those stupid bastids should start listening to us. If they listened, they would hear the answer to how to fix the economy, they would know to put some decent clothes on that don’t show the crack of their ass (because seriously, it ain’t all that attractive, unless you are talking Antonio Banderas), they would know it was a stupid time to bunt, and that umpire would have made the proper call and not the dumbass one he did make. The grubs laugh, or roll their eyes, or make their smart little digs, but I know better. I know that soon enough, they too will be screaming at the set, and sharing their wisdom. It’s inevitable.