As the great-granddaughter of immigrants, I was going to write about immigration policy and the responsibilities borne by any first world nation in regards to escalating violence in developing nations and sheltering displaced children seeking refuge but I have much more pressing problems right here at home.
My underwear is ripped.
And I should probably throw them away.
But then I would only have one pair of the comfortable cotton kind left and be forced to wear the stretchy nylon ones that make me sweat in unfortunate places.
It’s a dilemma.
Now a rational human being might mention that there is a Target, a Walmart and a Kmart (I know – it’s hard to believe there is a Kmart still in business) located just a few miles from my house. I could, ostensibly, stop at any of these establishments and purchase wide array of cotton underwear in the appropriate size.
But rationale behavior is an unjust standard by which to measure my propensity to do what would be logical in any given situation.
Instead I keep washing this same pair.
And each time I put it in the wash I think that I should throw them away.
And each time I move them from the washer to the dryer I think that I should throw them away.
And each time I attempt to fold what’s left of them, I am certain I should throw them away.
But instead they go in my pile of laundry and make their way back into my drawer and I put them back on.
And each time I pull them up they become a little more hole and a whole lot less underwear.
To the point, that really, wearing no underwear would make more sense.
At least then my toe wouldn’t get caught in what is left of the waistband and, while standing on one foot in the bathroom, in an attempt to extricate my toe from the frayed black band to which a few shreds of fabric are desperately clinging, I pitch forward and nearly knock myself out on the edge of the pedestal sink.
But if I don’t wear any underwear then, as my mother made VERY clear to me growing up, I am certain to get into car accident during which my clothing will need to be cut away in order to save my life and the emergency medical personnel will be so stunned by my free-flapping lady bits that they will lose precious seconds in a vagina-induced fugue state, thereby causing my death.
My lack of proper undergarments will have broken my mother’s heart and embarrassed the family name all in one fell swoop.
So commando is out.
And the old threadbare underwear is back on.
Thankfully, I imagine my great-grandmother had much sturdier undergarments when, in the early part of the last century, she left Greece for America.
Had she taken the decidedly less ambitious route and become trapped in ill-kept underwear rather than crossing an ocean as an unaccompanied minor sent by her family for the promise of life in a new country, I might not be here today, writing a blog about my own insignificant but distracting holey cotton-blend versus sweaty stretchy nylon underwear issues.
It’s a good thing the fate of the family did not rest on my shoulders is all I’m saying.
So my ongoing underwear distraction greatly diminishes my ability to fully address nuanced and challenging issues such as immigration with the full measure of studied wisdom and experience necessary to add intelligently to the discussion.
Instead I’ll just post this rant about my underwear to Facebook.
But I suppose that’s what is known as a first world problem.
Thanks for nothing YiaYia.