Lately things in my women’s book group have been getting out of hand.  I think it all started when we made the switch from herbal tea to sauvignon blanc; a solitary vowel, after all, is the only thing standing between a literary “salon” and a literary “saloon.” Then cannabis entered the picture, albeit in a bass-ackward way (word of warning:  don’t stand next to an open wood stove wearing hemp yoga pants, especially if the fire is lit), and it’s been more or less downhill ever since.  Take our last meeting, for instance, when we were supposed to be conducting a thoughtful analysis of The Kite Runner (as a matter of principle, we read only books of deep social significance, preferably set in countries where the yak is still the primary mode of transportation). We’d barely made a dent in the Questions for Discussion when the conversation took an abrupt swerve to the left and before you could say Oprah Winfrey, we were stripping off our clothes to see who had the most married-looking underwear.

How it came to this, I’m not sure.  You know that story about how a frog will leap out of a pot of boiling water, but poach itself to death if you turn the heat up just a little at a time?  So it is with me and my underwear.  I didn’t go from dainty little silk nothings to the oversized industrial model overnight; it’s been a slow and steady creep over the years, like the minute but relentless shift in the tectonic plates beneath the very ground I walk upon in my sturdy feed barn unmentionables.

Hey, speaking of geology, I now invite you to accompany me on a brief archaeological expedition through the various strata of my underwear bin.  While the dig is underway, I will be tossing out items that are no longer of use, in an effort to get started on my (2003) New Year’s resolution to organize my closet. 

The first thing we’ll do is turn the bin upside down, so that the oldest specimens are now on top.  Okay, here goes:

Sedimentary Layer One:  Carbon dating indicates that the objects found here go back to the early Reagan era and are typical of artifacts used by females engaged in illicit office romance at that time in history. 

Layer Two:  From items identified here, one might infer there were a few visits to the sorts of establishments that also stock stud collars and inflatable sheep.  The couple has clearly been having some fun.

Layer Three:  Evidence of extensive damage caused by chewing indicates either some curious peccadilloes or, alternatively, the acquisition of a puppy.

Layer Four:  Abrupt change marking possible seismic event, such as marriage.  Increased emphasis on practicality. Several items with built-in shoulder pads establish mid to late 1980s time frame.

Layer Five:  Satin, lace, and bikini style items no longer present in strata.  Continued evidence of shredding by sharp incisors, presumably canine in origin.

Layer Six:  Still some indication of pride in appearance, but nothing here that won’t stand up to Clorox and a hot water cycle.

Layer Seven:  Objects here appear to be dependable, well broken-in and definitely good for the long haul…much like a marriage that is closing in on its Silver Anniversary.  Nothing that will make the cover of Victoria’s Secret, perhaps, but these, quite obviously, are keepers.       

Some final food for thought:  If Monica Lewinsky had flashed the elastic waistband from a pair of giant-sized Fruit of the Looms at Bill Clinton, instead of that infamous thong strap, scandal might well have been averted, and at this very moment Al Gore could be finishing up his second term and The Decider might be exercising his considerable management skills in the relatively harmless arena of major league baseball. Who would have suspected that the evil genius behind the thong would one day be the lingerie equivalent of J. Robert Oppenheimer or Edward Teller?  Applying sandal design principles to underwear turns out to be nearly as dangerous as splitting atoms.

Okay, dig completed, and now I’ve got a bag full of discards.  Hmmmm…wonder if you can hold up a sagging gutter with a garter belt…