So, when the sales lady told me: “You can’t wear panties with this dress because of panty lines,” (photo above), I ought to have recognized I NEVER would be able to go to my husband’s work party without wearing underwear.

Still, I bought the gorgeous dress that fit me like a glove and also showed off all my lady parts, hoping I’d get gutsy. (I was going to write ‘grow a pair’ or ‘grow balls,’ but that just seemed plain ridiculous to write, when talking about a panty-free dress.)

My husband was with me when I tried the dress on at the boutique. He loved the dress. When I asked him about the shopping experience later, he chuckled and said, “Do you really think I could comprehend anything AT ALL  after I found out you would have to wear no underwear!”

So, as you can see, he was little to no help.

When I talked to my friend in England (after I bought the dress), she said: “I don’t think that’s such a good idea wearing no knickers to your husband’s work party.”

You think?

When I thought about creating an underwear-free zone under my dress, I was taken back in time to the months I had to share a small bed with my wrinkly snoring grandmother. She never wore underwear to bed.

Regardless of my panty-issues, with high hopes, I brought the body-hugging dress home.

The night before last, I spent an hour searching in the intimate undergarment department for stockings. I figured stockings would at least give me a layer. I found some nylons that made me gasp out loud. I really said: “EWWWW!” I didn’t know they made stockings that went all the way to the bottom of the bra line as to not show stocking lines. The photo of the woman was outrageously odd, like some bi-ped mermaid in a stretchy black see-through suit.

First no panty lines? Now no stocking lines? I was beginning to wonder whom I was hiding all these lines from and for what purpose.

As I looked around the department store, I found all types of signs that tried to remind me of my inadequacy.

I couldn’t believe all the weird contraptions: body suits that sucked in my fat, bras that pushed up my stuff, and other thing-a-ma-jigs I wasn’t sure what I’d do with, other than take photos to send to my friend, so we could bust up laughing together.

My favorite was the attire that read: “Gets rid of muffin top.” I didn’t even know clothes manufactures used that term. Oh, and one item promised: “Gives you instant confidence.” I thought, wow, I didn’t have to write this blog, I could have just spent $19.95, slipped on this nude-colored leotard thingy, and presto had instant esteem.

After all the “line” hiding I was supposed to do, I was surprised I was “allowed” to wear a bra. Until I saw these things called breast petals—tiny flower shaped Bandaids made to stick to boobs, or at least the tips of boobs. I just about lost my composure then. Why would I want Bandaids for my boobs? And, man, the peel-off factor, when all was said and done….Ouch!

I ended up buying three pairs of different style stockings to try on with the deemed “panty-free” dress.

At home I tried to wear stockings with the pretty dress. I tried really hard. And then I cried inside, as I couldn’t pull it off.

I felt as if I lost a part of me then: The panty-free, pin-up girl who never was. Sigh….

Luckily, I had the black little nun-like dress I first fell in love with a week prior to finding the pin-up dress! And as soon as I put the black dress on, I twirled inside with glee. For this dress I could wear panties with!

~~~~~~~~

The Party

When we pulled out of the drive, to head out-of-town for the party, I screeched: “Stop the car! I forgot my blankie! I can’t sleep without my blankie!”

My fifteen year old was kind enough to say: “What are you like five years old, Mom?”

I jumped out of the van, did a twirl, and shouted back sweetly, “No. I’m twelve!!!”

When we first arrived at the party, only the owner of the company, my husband and I were touring a section of the building (museum) together, as the rest of the party, some hundred people, had moved on into the other rooms. The whole time (some fifteen minutes with the owner) I kept thinking to myself: I’m so glad I wore underwear!

Thank goodness, I didn’t say my thoughts aloud to the company owner.

Imagine the scene: “My smile? Well, to tell you the truth, I’m just so happy to have panties!”

As it was, I kept saying to my husband all night: “I’m soooo glad I didn’t wear that other dress!”

He just nodded. But I could see in his eyes what he was really thinking: “You have Aspergers. You are processing. Thus the repetition of the same statement. However, I kind of wish you didn’t have panties on.”

As I was leaving the party for the night, a party that turned out to be very pleasant, a kind lady complimented my outfit, and said, “And look at those cute red shoes, like Dorothy’s shoes from the Wizard of Oz. Who wears red shoes anymore? So cute.”

I giggled, and replied, “You know these shoes are a funny story. You see, I bought them to go with this clingy pin-up-girl dress, but I was too embarrassed to wear it and had to return the dress, but I kept the shoes.”

She smiled.

I was careful not to bring up the panty thing.

I felt so very twelve, so very pleased, and so very happy for my panties.