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On another planet (nearly),

In another time zone (definitely),

And in a previous lifetime (sort of),

I wore white underwear. Bras, panties, petticoats. Even the coming of age and compulsory and eagerly awaited (to our teenage minds) “step-in.” (South African version of the American girdle.)

As I said. I wore white cotton. Out of necessity. That’s all there was.

Easy to keep sparkling. A drop of bleach did wonders for dingy white underwear.

And nice, crisp, fresh, white underwear looked clean.

(Please take note of the repetitive use of the adjective CLEAN. I will return to it.)

The years go by. I now have choices. I flirted with dark blue, pale blue, pink, black, fiery red. Never skin color. Too blah for my adventurous mindset.

Lace and silk. Push-up at the top and skimpy at the bottom. Teddies and more.

But somewhere along the line I returned to all white.

“It looks so clean,” I told the Captain. “I feel clean and fresh when I wear all white.”

Retirement from the corporate world and a second career in fitness reinforces my “clean and fresh with white” love affair.

Sports bras and well-fitting panties. Preferably nothing that shows the dreaded pantie line.

My clothes and underwear take a beating. Lots of washing. Stuff gets stretched. Hot dryers can only fix so much.

My stash sorely depleted I head for Walmart where I can usually find packets of six panties in my size in white.

No luck.

Any color or range of colors but not one single packet of white of only..

I do the rounds. Target, Kohl’s and more.

No luck.

I go online.

I research Hanes. Fruit of the Loom. And more.

No luck.

I pick up the phone and call Customer Service at one of the aforementioned brands.

To be told they no longer package packets of white only due to low demand.

Well yes.

Annoyed and frustrated I go to the Captain to lament the lack of white underwear.

“It looks so clean,” I tell the Captain. “I feel clean and fresh when I wear all white.”

(As stated before – deliberate repetition here in order to reinforce what’s coming.)

I retreat, muttering and re-coup. I decide grey would be an acceptable alternative

And fell in love.

With grey.

It matched my silver hair.

Now retired, I change my brand and the fabric of my underwear. I’m back to favoring silky stuff.

I buy individuals.

But I maintain my love affair with grey.

This is where my nearest and dearest enter into my story.

He needed new unmentionables. Badly.

I go shopping and announce –

“I can’t find packets of white only. Will you wear coloreds? As in blue and purple and grey?”

“No,” he says. “White only.”

“What’s wrong with grey? I can get grey. Don’t you like my grey panties?” says me.

“I only wear white. It looks clean. Grey looks dirty.”

So yes, a little hurt, thinking of how cute I think my grey panties are, I walked away.

And a couple of hours later remembered my own words.

Now being repeated back to me.

Deliberately? I don’t believe so. His memory is not that good. Neither is he nasty by nature.

But what I’d said years ago got stuck in his subconscious.

So be careful what you say.

Try to make sure it’s nothing that will come back to haunt you.

Or you won’t be hurt if it does.

Cyber hugs all as visions of sugar plum fairies intermingled with multi-colored underwear dance through my mind.


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