I am not a person who enjoys doing laundry.  The truth is, I probably haven’t seen the bottom of a laundry basket since the first President Bush left office, sixteen-plus years and three major moves ago.  During the interim, I’ve migrated from city to suburb to country accompanied by the same three pairs of unwashed Gap khakis, now hopelessly out-of-date, along with a tangle of suntan-colored pantyhose I don’t have the gumption to either toss out or wash, and a few other odds and ends from my distant sartorial past, like my Ross Perot T-shirt, souvenir of a brief infatuation back in early ’92, now languishing in the depths of the Eternal Laundry Pile, sullied and forgotten, not unlike the crazy little candidate himself.

     Just as I’ve lost the battle with soap scum and dog hair and baked-on grease, I’ve more or less thrown in the towel (dirty, of course) on laundry as well.  Although so far I’ve managed to keep the Department of Health at bay, it probably takes me a good year to work my way through a medium-sized box of Tide.  It doesn’t help that our washer and dryer are located in the far corner of a dank, century-old basement, which is also home to a thriving population of rodents, spiders, scorpions and centipedes, along with the occasional unexpected bat.  I like to keep my visits down there to a minimum, and will wear nearly anything – paint-spattered sweatshirts, high waist jeans and, when I’m desperate enough, select items from my husband’s wardrobe – in order to avoid any unnecessary subterranean expeditions.  Fortunately, the dress code out here in the sticks is pretty loose.  Our neighbors Don and Spirit, for example, generally dispense with clothing altogether, despite the fact that they’ve been entitled to the senior discount down at our local tie-dye emporium for nearly twenty years now.  (Don, as my regular readers may recall, is a gas-channeling massage therapist, and Spirit runs a real estate agency that specializes in feng shui property staging.  They are also active in the GOP – Global Orgasm for Peace -- movement.)

      We live on the coast, some forty miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge, in an area that’s lovely to look at, but remote in terms of conveniences.  So every few weeks, I hitch up the wagon and head down to civilization in order to stock up on essentials, like yarn for various projects I’ll never get around to starting, and garments that are not constructed of hemp cloth.  I like browsing in big city dress shops, if only to remind myself of the glamorous days of yore, when my fashion statement generally made no mention of muck boots or fleece.  It was on one of these recent trips into town, as a matter of fact, that I happened to notice a sign in the window of Loehmann’s: HUGE SALE 75% OFF!

     Loehmann’s, in case you've missed out, is a no-frills retail chain where you can get top designer fashions for a fraction of their original department store prices.  Sadly, these days the highlight of my social calendar is a toss-up between the Community Septic Potluck and the annual Cow Flop Drop, events that do not strictly call for the latest from Georgio Armani, even when purchased at a deep discount.  But who says a country girl can’t throw a bone to her inner Carrie Bradshaw every now and then? 

     Of course, entering Loehmann’s in the middle of a major sale is a bit like stepping off the curb in Pamplona during the annual Running of the Bulls, though fear of imminent bodily harm naturally pales in comparison to the terror of missing the opportunity to snag a Donna Karan blazer at 20% below wholesale.  With that in mind, I entered the fray without hesitation, rummaged around for 45 terrifying minutes, grabbed what I could, and elbowed my way into the communal dressing room. 

     It is a testament to the lure of the designer discount that so many women are willing to strip down in public under the glare of cellulite-enhancing overhead lights in full view of their fellow bargain hunters, in an atmosphere that harkens back to the locker room traumas of tenth grade gym. Of course, you’re not supposed to look at the other women standing around in their skivvies, but who can resist the temptation to sneak a peek?  There are fewer things more reassuring in life than knowing someone else has even bigger thighs than you do.  

      You know that weird sixth sense feeling you get when you know somebody is staring at you?  I had just slipped a Michael Kors sheath ($29.99, reduced from $950!) over my head when I began to experience that uncomfortable sensation for myself, and it was coming from several directions.  I also began to pick up the distinct sound of muffled laughter, which seemed to be getting less muffled by the second.  It was at that moment I suddenly remembered what I’d slipped into that morning, when I’d failed to factor in the possibility of a public unveiling.  In my shopping frenzy, it was a minor detail that had, quite honestly, completely slipped my mind.  My eyes traveled somewhat reluctantly to my reflection in the full length mirror, where they were met with what even I had to concede was a rather peculiar vision.

      I was wearing my husband’s underwear.  Jockey briefs, size 38, gray heavy gauge cotton, with a sagging pouch in front that could have comfortably accommodated a baby wombat or a newborn kangaroo, if I’d had a mind to carry one with me into town that day.

      Strange, perhaps even by San Francisco standards.

      And the coloured girls go

     Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo

     Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo

     Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo

     Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo……

      (This is my final contribution to the ever-expanding body of underwear-themed posts here at Open Salon.  Tomorrow I will resume my long-running series on the legislative history of probate code reform.)