My post on Facebook tonight that I love Commando, and subsequent discussion, got me thinking about underwear.
The Commando I was referring to was the gorgeous tank, inked creature on The Biggest Loser, who started out as the pseudo-military trainer from hell, hidden behind dark glasses, but is now, with baby blues revealed, the losers' best friend. And he's a delectable yet calorie-controlled treat of eye candy for the viewing public to boot.
But one Facebooker assumed the commando I was referring to was the practice of, how did she put it, wearing one's shorts without undies. Also known by the male part of my household as freeballing.
Now, I'm as liberal as the next tertiary-educated, recently separated, feminist, middle-aged working mother, but I do like my undies. And, sad to say, the bigger the better.
Not quite Bridget Jones mummy pants, but, when there are acres to cover, you won't do it with anal floss.
I have been known to "go commando" on occasions; skirt-wearing occasions where a visible panty line would be too horrific, or some serious action was anticipated (and I can hardly remember those days!! perhaps I'm making them up?) but mostly I do keep my knickers on.
And it would be unseemly to freeball wearing anything with a seam, surely?
Even the G-string is surely a contraption of torture.
I suspect it, and not merciless hunger, is the reason for the misery exhibited by Posh, and her supermodel ilk.
They really need to hoik out their undies, but someone's always watching.
To live life with a wedgie, truly perverse.
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