As I get older, I do forget a detail or two when packing to travel, but this time I discovered that I packed no underpants. Dementia be damned, I just donned a long skirt and strolled commando-style to get underpants or knickers or whatever is the euphemism of your choice.
I went to the 24/7 cheapy mini-mart, near the awful motel next to Bangkok airport where I stayed before the flight. It was on the same corner as the local meeting place of street-dogs and junkies. They seemed to welcome me as one of their own. It’s all coming together.
Underpants choices:
A) Girlie panties in all-synthetic sweat-fabric, florescent lavender with embossed pink flowers, thin cardboard box torn open, about $2 for one pantie.
B) Guys’ equivalent in 100% cotton, no patterns, solid coloured dignified dark blues and greens, absurdly over-packaged in a strong plastic zip bag you could use for a wallet, three undies for $2.
Well for heaven’s sake, what do you think I bought? They fit fine, since your average Thai male isn’t so much bigger than I am, in this one-size-fits-all world. In fact the baggy bit at the front was ideal for the travellers’ waistband pouch with passport etc. I may never buy girlie knickers again.
Maybe once-upon-a-time in our species, underpants were just bloody underpants. Or, maybe not? Somewhere, someplace, someone did a PhD in anthropology on this question, I feel certain. I’m not intrigued enough to actually investigate, but just harbour a strong hunch.
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