Foxy Writer Chick

There’s a laundry detergent commercial airing all over the place in which a mom and dad are folding a mountain of laundry because their adult children and in-laws have moved in with them.

Dad holds up a rather large pair of underpants with a look of horror on his face.

Mom snatches the giant granny-panties away just as grandpa shuffles into the scene looking for his pants.

Ah, family togetherness, right?

I remember when my dad, Gordy, moved in with my family of five.

We had some adjustments to make. He was a lot of fun, but once in awhile I got thrown for a loop.

Take the morning I pulled a pair of black bikini underpants out of my drawer and thought, these don’t look right.

I held them up in the lamplight and saw a SAUSAGE POUCH.

“These aren’t mine!” I said to my husband as I flicked them across the room at him, knowing he had been the one to fold our laundry and put it away. “There’s a banana hammock!”

“I didn’t know,” Paul said. “I thought they looked weird, but they’re black–they’re small–I figured they were yours.”

“Yeah, well, they must be Gordy’s,” I said.

Yup. And further proof the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree.

 

My dad was a hipster before hipster was cool.

He caused a stir at work in the mid-sixties for rocking sideburns and colored dress shirts. But a few years later, most the men in the company had followed suit.

From Gordy, I learned to be true to myself.

And fashion is a great place to do exactly that.

Whether it is seen or unseen.

 

 

 

 

That being said, however, I’m never sure why women feel compelled to wear head-to-toe Victoria’s Secret sweats with the word: PINK written in large block letters across each piece.

You can wear Victoria’s Secret on every inch of your body if you like–but it doesn’t make you look like a VS model. (That’s either God-given or done in a surgical suite–or both.)

Same goes for head-to-toe anything. Like those ladies who dress like giant pumpkins at Halloween. Or men who found a look in 1983 and they’re sticking with it.

Anyway, when I was teaching high school in an urban setting, a young lady and young man got into a war of words over all the designer-labels they were wearing that particular day.

To diffuse the argument, I got between them and said, “Hey, I’m wearing a dress from Gabriel Brothers that cost me $6.00 and my cardigan is Walmart, $14.99. My shoes are hand-me-downs from my sister.”

They erupted into laughter. What could they say?

The truth is, though, I love fashion–I really do. But I’m a free-spirit with a bargain-hunter’s eye–and I don’t want somebody else’s name all over my body.

And that goes for my underwear, too.

Throughout my professional life, I always chose to wear outrageous underwear on days when I had difficult meetings, observations, or the like.

It was my subversive way of saying, “Underneath this professional exterior is a woman who slays in leopard-print bikini underpants.”

It’s the little things in life that keeps you sane.

At any rate, fast forward to many years later when my dad passed away.

My sister and I had to pick out the clothes he would wear in the casket, so we chose his favorite jeans, a button-down, a sweater, a Grateful Dead cap, and, RED BIKINI UNDERPANTS.

Not a traditional choice, I know, but somehow, I know he approved.

Thanks for stopping by.

Remember, life is short. Walk on the wild side.

xoxo,

Susan J. Anderson

Foxy Writer Chick