This Underwear is not Mine

My underwear are not my own. If they were, they would never become filthy, smelly, moist and soiled. If my underwear were my own they would stay fresh and clean at all times. But alas, no matter how many times I wash the underwear, all it takes is a few hours of wear before they become filthy all over again.

My underwear is not mine, if it was, it would be under my control. In fact my underwear regularly controls me: it is my underwear stash that dictates laundry days, that monopolizes room in my suitcase. My trips are even planned with underwear in mind –will I be able to get to a hotel with laundry service to clean them?  Hell, on several trips my entire day was blown trying to get laundry done because I had run out of clean undies.

If my underwear were truly mine it wouldn’t rip and tear at inconvenient times. It wouldn’t get holes and wouldn’t wear out in the moisture absorbing crotch. At the very least, the expensive pairs would be built to last, I could count on those for a long time. But alas I have had underwear fray, rip in half mid day at the office, and force me to go comando all afternoon. Even the pricey period pairs come unstitched, their pads come out in the wash, weakening with every wash and every wear.

If my underwear were actually mine they would not embarrass me. They wouldn’t become so fragrant I could smell myself when I sit, and wouldn’t make me paranoid others around could smell me too.  Those period panties would always work, I wouldn’t have to worry continually, running to and from the bathroom checking for leaks. They would always absorb what they say they would absorb, irrespective of if it is a light period day or massive bleeding after a biopsy or pap. No matter what, they would do their job of keeping my lady business discreet.

But no matter what I think the underwear’s job is, no matter why I bought it, no mater that I count on it, no matter that I seriously prefer no stench, no matter that I wash after every single wear –my underwear will not heed my desires. This is because bodily fluids make them wet. Bacteria, in the hot humid vaginal area consuming those fluids and make them smell. Saturated solid cotton fibers begin to leak. Tension in the threads, and friction of fabric against my body, make them tear.

Are the undies constant or inconstant ? Clearly they are inconstant: they go through cycles from clean to dirty. They rip and tear, become waterlogged and leak, they go wet and dry in the hamper. They fade and they stretch.

And is that which is constant easeful or stressful? Stressful, no question. I work hard, to preserve my undies, to transform them into a clean state when they grow filthy. I think ahead, plan, make sure I have enough undies wherever I go. I am embarrassed when my undies smell, I worry they will leak and embarrass me even more. I am, quite frankly, disgusted by them at the end of each and every wear. When they stopped making my incontinence underwear I stressed even more, I scoured the internet and stress bought every last pair, because I felt like I needed them. Despite my need, they are the easiest ones to tear.

And is it fitting to regard what is inconstant, stressful and subject to change as “this is mine”?

I am starting to think… likely no: When I take my underwear off I literally fling them across the room, into the hamper, as fast as I can to be unseen and unsmelt. How is it I claim an object as mine when it disgusts me more often than it doesn’t.

How do I call something mine when it dictates my actions. When I am forced to make accommodations for it. No matter where I want to go, no matter what else I want to pack, no matter my other plans for the day –I always need to be mindful of underwear. Do I have enough? If not, I have to stop everything I am doing to clean them. I have to spend hours searching for new ones. I have to slip out over lunch and buy a pair to replace ones torn during the work day.

What is more is these undies were bought with the intention of keeping me clean and presentable, but they regularly make me smell. They are bought to protect me from the embarrassment of peeing or bleeding on myself, but at times they fail. Is something that embarrasses me mine? Is something I can’t really count on, with an issue so personal and delicate, actually mine?

I generally want my stuff to reflect me, but does a dirty ass ratty pair of underwear reflect who I am –does it prove I am pretty, delicate, in control of my body? Does it even actually keep me from leaking when I pee myself? Shit, it doesn’t even hide my filth so that other, “more me” rupa can “shine” unhindered. If I can’t force, or manage, something so small, something so basic, the very first thing I put on every single day still hasn’t yielded to my command, how on earth can I claim command over bigger things in the universe?

How am I supposed to call these consumables mine? These items I use, on their terms, when they are usable at all…items I care for. Items I am burdened by and stressed about. Perhaps the best question is “how is it that I think I can prove the underwear are mine when all the evidence points to the contrary?”