To Match, or not to Match?
That is His Question

"This woman is amazing," my significant other comments from his place beside me on the sofa. "Why can't you do this?"

I peer over the top of my magazine at the television screen. For the past two hours he's been watching one of these action-flicks where the body count is at least three a minute. Hooray for Hollywood in that the main character is a woman. However, reality is not a word that is associated with this movie.

"It's all make-believe, dear." I pat his hand in comfort, while the heroine loses yet another set of clothing. "No woman gets blown up, poisoned, and held under water for five minutes without dying. That's the facts. Sorry to shatter your illusions."

"That's not what amazes me." He gives me his what-kind-of-an-idiot-do-you-think-I-am look. "Didn't you notice that in every scene she's wearing matching bras and panties? Why don't you do that?"

I lay my hand on his forehead to check if he has a fever. He doesn't. Could his question be sugar-induced? He did eat an entire bag of candy.

"It's not only the woman in this movie who matches one end to the other," he further informs me. "I see them all the time in magazines and on television. Red bra, red panties. Blue bra, blue panties."

Beneath my sweatshirt I'm not even wearing a bra. As for panties? I'm having a bloat day; I'm wearing cotton briefs topped by a stretched-out waistband. Yet I don't attempt to soften the verbal blow.

"The women whom you see in the media, whether video or print, are called models. In other words they aren't real women. They don't spent their work day typing, nor teaching a classroom filled with rambunctious 5 year olds. These fantasy women don't have any worries other than if they are perfectly matched for their photo session. The rest of the female population doesn't have this luxury, so we usually don't care too much about what the normal eye can't see."

This fact of life shocks him, but other women will readily understand exactly what I'm saying here. Silky matching undergarments are something we all like to wear when passion is on our minds, but when we're out shoveling snow we don't give a damn if we're wearing rose silk panties that perfectly match a rose silk push-them-up-to-the-sky bra.

Nope. Plain old cotton panties will do in whatever color we have available. They're comfortable, gynecologist-approved, (Anyone who has ever suffered a yeast infection surely got the cotton-panty lecture from her doctor) and they don't tend to ride up. If you're like me, you also own certain bras that should never be worn out of the house.

Don't misunderstand me: There is nothing wrong with women who take great care to match their bras and undies. It's their choice. I don't condemn them for it. All this fuss and bother just isn't me. I dress, or undress as the case may be, to please myself. This should be so for every woman regardless of her age or marital status.

I have certain bras I wear to work, certain ones to wear when I jog, and one that is padded enough so that when I take the cats to the veterinarian, and they sink their panicked claws into me, my breast does not get punctured. I even have some bras in a size larger than normal that I depend upon for the time during the month when my breasts swell. My bras aren't all plain white either, but run the gamut from beige to black. Some even have a bit of lace, while other are plain.

As for my panties? Briefs. Bikinis. Thongs. None exactly match my bras. Some are well-worn shades of their original selves; others are bleached. However, none have holes, nor pieces of elastic hanging from them. Therefore I feel that they are all presentable enough just in case I ever do get hit by a car and taken to the emergency room, as my mother fears.

The movie my significant other was watching has ended. He's channel surfing, pausing to watch an old Madonna video on MTV. She's wearing what she considers undergarments, and yes they do match. The next channel my man flips to features three society girls fleeing from a monster and surprise, surprise, all three are running in their matching undies.

My sofa-sharing male doesn't say a word, but his pout tells me our disagreement about my fashion crime is far from over. Well, it's time to snap him back to life as it really is.

I take the remote from him and click through the channels until I find what I want. No. It's not Tarzan in his loincloth, but one of those muscle-man contests where the male contestants wear designer bikini briefs that are no wider than dental floss.

"These men are amazing." I nudge my boxer-shorts wearing guy with my elbow, then bat my eyelashes at him. "Look at how well their briefs match their glistening bodies. When you paint the ceilings tomorrow, why don't you put on a pair of those tiny briefs. Red, or blue? Your choice. I'll buy."

He gets the point and, wisely, does not reply. The skirmish is over and the woman in the mismatched underwear declares herself the winner. My significant other's question, "Why can't you?" has been answered with a "Why can't you?" of my own, but my victory will be short lived. He's just put on a show about the joys of breast enlargement. Need I say more?


© Jackie Clements-Marenda

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