You Are (Not) Your Underwear

Today I was at the park listening to two moms talk about their underwear. OK, it sounds creepy - I was just minding my own business sitting in the shade with my daughter, and couldn't help but overhear the two moms next to me discussing the embarrassing condition of their lingerie (or lack thereof). The two women lamented to one another that the breakneck pace of mom life left them little energy to focus on the quality of their undergarments. I believe the words "Target" and "Hanes" were mentioned, and believe me, I can relate. Many moms can.

In any committed relationship you reach a point where the mystery evaporates. You know each other, inside and out. You've seen each other at your best, at your worst, and you've experienced the full range of one another's bodily functions. Some of our partners have watched us push a baby out of our southern regions, for crying out loud - and at close range! 

The reality of parenthood often squeezes out romantic spontaneity. Sometimes there just isn't time, energy, or even desire to maintain regular intimacy, much less give a crap about stocking up on fancy shmance drawers. You reach a point where any undergarment that gets the job done is OK by you. And if you're a mom who's managed to remain fastidiously fashion-forward in your underwear exploits, that's terrific, too! I salute you. I envy you.

The state of your underwear drawer isn't what matters, because you are not your underwear. What I hate to see is women equating their desirability to the quality of their panties. If motherhood has taught me anything, it is that I am a multi-faceted prism of contradictions and conflicting truths. I can be simultaneously in love with my children, and also want them far, far away from me for a day (or five). I can care deeply about feeding my family wholesome, natural foods, and break out a Swanson lasagna on a night that I absolutely cannot handle cooking another meal. And I can sure as sh*t still be sexy in my 2-year-old, worn-in (possibly worn-out) Hanes. Say it with me, mama: "I am not my underwear."