In Praise of Underthings

In recent weeks, two distinct sets of events have conspired to make me ever more conscious of the important role that underclothes play in life. The first set is quite dull, the second marginally more exciting. Below, I shall relate them from more to less boring, so as to fool you into believing either that the second set of events is truly thrilling when juxtaposed with the first, or that both sets of events when compared with only each other really constitute quite an exciting saga.

Ready?

My first encounter with the wonderment of unmentionables came just prior to a meeting with Dr. B, whose spinal adjustments are simply the ambrosia of our time. To set the scene, the chiropractic clinic here is located on a residential block in a building that masquerades as a ranch-style house. Inside, the space is divided by a lobby and an x-ray lab and a number of examination rooms, but the white siding and black shutters outside suggest chicken noodle soup and sectional furniture rather than ultrasound machines and large quantities of crackling vertebrae.

When I go in for a spinal tweaking, I take a seat in the lobby for perhaps one minute. Without fail, I pull the latest issue of People or Entertainment Weekly off the magazine rack and attempt to make it through the tantalizing cover story before my name is called; it never works, but I still try. A receptionist leads me to one of six exam rooms and inquires, "Do you need a gown?"

Now, since back adjustments involve the application of copious amounts of aloe-like gel, which goes hand in hand with the ultrasound machine, I reply, "Indeed I do." Or, "Yes." One or the other. Usually the other. When I say "gown", though, I'm not talking about one of those paper hospital bibs; these are blue or green cloth tents that reach my knees and fasten in the back with ancient pieces of Velcro. It is very easy not to reveal your underthings while wearing these gowns, especially when you slip them on over your jeans, which is the norm. It is slightly less easy not to reveal your underthings while changing to and from these gowns, especially when you have to remove your shirt in order to don said garments.

So one fine summer day, I found myself in an exam room at the back of the house, facing the alley. I was well out of my tank top before I realized that I was actually facing someone's backyard picnic table, but after noticing this I could see it oh so clearly, being that the curtains were utterly open and I was on the ground floor. Fortunately for all involved, the sun-drenched yard across from the clinic was completely devoid of life (other than vegetation, of course, which wasn't too interested in ogling the girl in Exam Five). Oh, and equally fortunately for all involved (so, just me, then) underthings were present. That was the point of all this, I had almost forgotten.

The second set of events that reminded me of the truly stellar nature of undergarments took place during the month of dress rehearsals for the play (this will be my last referral to theatricity, I swear). In my prior - admittedly limited - theatre experience, only one or two fully-costumed runs of the show occurred before opening night. For DY, however, Gary insisted that we start using our costumes the minute they were available. This meant that for literally the three weeks leading up to opening, I spent a few hours each evening frantically stripping backstage.

Now, there is a locker room conveniently located underneath St. Mary's High School Auditorium, which women could use for the purposes of changing with some semblance of privacy. The men's changing area, however, was inconveniently located in the stairwell leading to the locker room. Just in case my desire to avoid traipsing merrily through a host of trouserless gentlemen of varying ages was not a strong enough deterrent, the limited timeframe in which the majority of my changes took place would have rendered it impossible for me to make it back up the stairs before the curtain opened on the next scene.

The alternative? The "Women's Dressing Screen", labeled thusly by a formal sign printed on flimsy white paper. The problem? The space behind the "Women's Dressing Screen" was most often occupied by one of the other womenfolk trying to avoid playing an ever-challenging game of "Dodge Pantsless Men". When lack of space and lack of time combine, nothing good can result. In my case, I became ever so skilled at cowering behind clothing racks, removing stockings under a slip, and donning a tank top before removing a strapless dress. Oh, and making sure my underthings were properly situated before emerging from my chosen dark corner.

In conclusion, thank you, Underthings. Without you, I would surely have flashed a varied assortment of people and blades of grass.

And now, let us return to my regularly scheduled prudish existence, already in progress.