Stop changing your underwear. An open letter to Jockey.

by Jotter girl on February 15, 2014


Dear Jockey,

When writing about underpants, one needs to walk a fine line where one tiny step can turn into too much information.  Hence, I am writing this with great care.  However, I should caution you, if you are a man you may not be able to relate.

You seem to be in cahoots with Lancôme and Wacoal to make my life more difficult.  It’s dreadfully hard work searching out the perfect undies, lip color and bra.  There have been times that I’ve been successful only to go back to replenish my supply and find out that my favorites are no longer available.  I can give Lancôme a pass for needing to keep up with color trends and improving formulas.  I’m even willing to forgive Wacoal since finding ways to improve the bra is a noble endeavor.  However, when it comes to underpants, undies, drawers, bloomers, skivvies or briefs, I am having a hard time looking the other way.

A great deal of effort goes into finding the just right pair of underwear.  I’m no fool, so generally I will buy 10 pairs of something I like.  Typically, about a year later, I will venture to the store in search of a new supply, only to find that there is a whole new crop of undies to choose from.

grocery baggranny undiesThe only constant I ever see in this

department are those large shaped

bloomers which look they could double

as plastic grocery store bags.

These do not interest me.

 In your defense, I imagine one of the worst creative jobs in the world is being an underpants designer.  The actual design of two leg holes and a waistband is completely limiting.  No need for darts, zippers, hems or pockets.  I can truly sympathize with the designer, sitting with their sketch pad and having little to no inspiration, but honestly there is no need to reinvent the wheel.  When I open my underwear drawer, I want to pick up a pair and know exactly how to put them on without needing a schematic diagram.  If I can’t figure out which opening is the leg hole, we have a problem.

As a suggestion, perhaps you might take a lesson from Levi’s and translate it to your underwear.  If I go to the Levi’s store and buy a pair of 501 jeans, I know that I can go back a year later and get the exact same pair of pants.  I would love it if Jockey could use a similar numbering system.  I would only recommend that you skip numbers 1 and 2…. because, well you know.

Here is how I envision the Jockey 52.  Soft cotton fabric with a simple, two leg hole and waist band design.  Decent coverage, as the intent of underwear, in my opinion, is to be a barrier between the roughness of pants and the skin. Waistband about an inch below the navel and colors that won’t startle me while in the ladies room.  Please note that there is no use of the words lace, bikini or string in my description.  Whoever gave women the idea that wearing something uncomfortable, albeit sexy, underneath their clothing will make them feel good about themselves obviously never wore an itchy lace thong.  I admit to falling prey to this scheme in the past but spent more time thinking about how to remove a wedgie in a lady-like sort of way, than being sexy.

While I am sure there are millions of women out there who will defend the thong, my underwear nemesis, I can only speak for myself and hope that there are others who feel the same way. I’m not one for making threats but do not for a minute think that I won’t move on to another underwear maker. I stopped shopping for underwear over at Victoria’s Secret a few years ago because I was getting tired of sorting through piles of underwear looking for ones without cute little messages on them.  Unless you are going to put my shopping list on my underwear, keep them message free.

I would be ever so grateful if the next time I visited the underwear department, I would see a rack of Jockey 52.






A lot can happen in a minute….

by Jotter girl on February 1, 2014


I think back to arriving at the bus stop that first day of 5th grade, when I was met by two neighborhood girlfriends and immediately knew something was wrong. I approached them with a smile but could see that they were not smiling back. That long minute before the bus arrived was awful and shocking, mostly because I never saw it coming. They took turns hissing at me while slamming me with the following messages.

We weren’t really your friends over the summer.

We were just using you.

We’ve always hated you.

You’re ugly.

Everyone hates you.

You have buck teeth.

You’re a dog.

Your mother probably packed you Alpo for lunch.

You’re a fag.

We are best friends and have always hated you.

You are a pig.

We are going to beat you up after school.

Your shoes are so ugly.

We are going to turn everyone against you.

Your clothes are so ugly, you must be poor.

We are going to beat you up at recess.

We hate you.

You are nothing.

Add 42 more and you have the minute that changed everything.

This was the first of many minutes just like it that would thread their way through the next 10 months of school. Each morning, while trying to find ways to stall at home, my mother made sure she swooshed me out the door so I wouldn’t miss the bus. It felt as though she was sending me to the lions.  I walked to the bus stop as slowly as possible, hearing the taunting getting louder the closer I got. Occasionally, a neighbor would open her window and yell at those girls, “Leave her alone!” This would only make them curse me under their breath as they continued their tirade onto the bus.

As the months went by, the only thing that improved was the fact that I could mentally prepare for what was about to happen each morning.  Yes, I was still scared, hurt and angry, but at least I knew the verbal assault would be temporary and that it would more or less end when I entered my classroom.  The emotional effects however, would live with me for the rest of the day, leaving a permanent mark on how I trusted the world and its ability to protect me from the lions.

One minute was all they needed.  Sixty seconds to turn a ten-year-old’s world turned upside down. One minute and one school year that seemed like forever.


This was a piece I wrote based on the writing prompt, A lot can happen in a minute, over at ReadWave.  I thought it was worth posting here as well although I originally hesitated because I didn’t want to come off as if I was looking for sympathy.  In fact, what I wrote is very much toned down from the actual events.  I admit that 42 years later, I still bear many of the scars from that year but have dealt with them and have tried put them into their proper place.  These type of events in life are simply not things you “get over” as some might advise.  Our choice is to bury them deep or face them and acknowledge their weight.  For me, writing this has lifted away some of the burden.





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