Don't Get Your Undies in a Bunch

I barely ever go to the mall. As a teen I used to scoff at my mom when she said she hated the mall, because I loved the place. Our excursions, however, especially the bra-buying ones, were painful until she got me my own credit card at age 15 and turned me loose. Hard on the family budget, good for our relationship.

These days I avoid the mall because of the parking, the crowds and the excess. However, on the last day of Easter Break I took the kids to the mall to see a movie. Molly seemed to come alive as soon as we walked through the doors. We passed by Victoria’s Secret and I realized I had a gift card for “A Free Panty” that had come in the mail and it wasn't even expired!

I felt torn for several reasons. First of all, I have never, ever owned a pair of panties. Before you get all grossed out at my personal hygiene, I will clarify—I wear underwear, not panties. My mother, God rest her soul, wore underwear. My sister wears underwear, and I am raising an underwear-wearing girl.

I’m not trying to offend any panty-wearers out there. I know I am very much in the minority, but still. The word panty just doesn’t work for me. Kind of like “slacks.” I wear pants, not slacks. And here’s a bonus: I go pee, not tinkle. Never have, never will. These words make me squinch up my face when I say them, at least in my head. I don't think I've ever said them out loud.

Okay, so I felt a little weird clutching my “free panty card” because of my own weirdness about the word, and because I was fully aware of the two impressionable kids who were with me.

But you know how I like free stuff, so I sauntered into V.S. as if it were the most natural place in the world to be with a 7 and 10 year old on a Monday afternoon. We were in for quite a show. The current display was titled: “Cheeky, Cheekier, and Cheekiest!”

All mannequins were decked out with various amounts of cheek showing. The kids’ eyes were like saucers. It was if Opie Taylor and Gomer Pyle had been plopped down in the red-light district in Amsterdam.

I knew I had to act fast, but I was overwhelmed by the colors, the choices, the words proudly splashed across the fronts and, when possible, the backs of each “panty.” I started to sweat. Eventually I found a plain gray cotton pair and headed to the register.

The kids had started to process, and they began to share their thoughts. Jake’s comment on the 10 foot high boobalicious photo on the wall: "I think it’s inappropriate for that lady to be standing in the middle of her garden in her underwear.” Yes, underwear. Good boy.

Molly’s thoughts: “This place seems really weird, but I can see myself loving it as a teenager.” Great.

I was in line forever when the salesMAN said to me. “You’re going to kill me, but the FREE PANTY (loud!) needs to be black or white.”

I hissed in my quietest hiss possible: “Look, I have 2 little kids here who have seen enough mannequin butt to last a lifetime. Make it work.” And he did.

The whole rest of the way to the theater, I felt guilty for dragging them in there. Were they scarred for life? Did I just sell out my kids to save $7.50 on "panties" (aargh!) that will probably ride up anyway?

No fear. Even if we’d never graced V.S.’s walls, we still had to walk by Abercrombie and Fitch with a 12 foot photo of a bare chested young man with his hand down the front of his pants. Not to be confused with the GUESS store next door: Shirtless man and woman kissing, with HER hand down HIS pants.

A few minutes later, we asked a nice young woman for directions to the elevator, except she turned out to be a “HE,” a fact not lost on the kids.

The movie may have been PG, but the mall was PG-13. I guess you won’t blame me for eating a purse full of candy during the movie to settle my nerves.