The Incorrigible Night Owl

I absolutely refuse to wear thongs. I think worrying about having a visible panty line is the most ridiculous thing “they” have ever come up with (“they” meaning whomever it is that sits around making arbitrary decisions about what women should and should not do in order to be attractive). Like women don’t have enough we’re supposed to feel self-conscious or ashamed about — body hair in places on which we evolved (or were created) to have body hair, teeth anything other than blindingly snow white, gray hairs, skin that, horror of horrors, looks to be anything over 25 years old — need I go on? On top of it all I am now apparently supposed to feel absolutely mortified if I have visible panty line. Now I’m expected to wear a strip of fabric wedged up my bum-oley just so I don’t offend anyone with the evidence that I wear underwear? I don’t think so. Don’t like it? Don’t look at my ass. That way everyone wins.
Not to mention the fact that having the buttcrack uncovered and unchecked provides the opportunity for any other fabrics in the vicinity, i.e. pants or skirts, to take up residence. I have seen, more than once, a woman with a flowy skirt and a thong on stand up and have her skirt caught in her crack, or, when wearing pants, display that unattractive “my bum is eating my slacks” look. I guess it’s a matter of deciding what would embarrass one more.
No offense meant to my thong-wearing pals, either. It’s a personal choice. I don’t particularly care what someone choses to wear for underclothing — and that includes whether or not I can see evidence of its existence or not. I just think it’s an extremely silly thing worry about and I wonder where it will stop. It seems like, at some point, we will eventually get to where we’re expected to be embarrassed to leave the house if we have even one hair out of place or one spot on our faces or with a broken nail. It seems like the standard of beauty is getting more and more nitpicky every year.