On the wearing of undergarments, and other life stuff

So a friend of mine dropped by last night, and she & I and my best friend, Kathryn* -
(*who, incidentally has ‘rented’ her family’s backyard cottage to me for the last couple few years -- and by airquotes I mean for not much, though I try to mitigate that by helping w animals, garden, K.P., silly late night conversations and our mutual absorption in shows like Transparent, Orange is the New Black, and Married) -
- found the three of us hanging out in the garden, all the pretty lights on, organic chicken steaks on the gas firepit barbecue in the back, and someone says something about not wearing any underwear.

         And perhaps it's relevant to mention that we are all in our fourth or fifth decades of life and I’m thinking surely as we age we will be more, not less, ‘proper’? 

         So.  This is how it happened to me:

         My boy, the only other one I considered marrying* (after he asked) post my one and only other husband (we were together at least 11 years  and I would consider him one of my best friends even though we cannot be in touch anymore, as he is v busy w/ his beautiful second wife and three gorgeous kids. all of whom live in L.A...)
     But this *guy (John S.),  that was (but can’t I say is, here?  Because surely even though he died -- no, he did not PASS AWAY, he fucking DIED) – even though he’s gone gone motherfucking GONE (and rarely, so rarely!  visits – by which I mean dropping in on my dreams – the only time I do remember one of those dreams, he wanted sex – which made me smile because that WOULD be the reason he’d drop in – smirking pun intended…oh, my boy…

         I say that because he was – nine?  Yes, I think nine years younger than me when he died.

         At 32.

       

         (But enough backstory, back to the theme!):

         At some point (this is about a decade later, give or take) I have told both of these fine women (and they are fine, you’re just gonna have to take my word for it) that one of the first things I found gratuitous after my guy died was the putting on of underwear.  Of under-garments.  Of drawers.

         The one thing I had – had, had, had – to do each morning was get to the goddamn clinic before it closed, which meant taking the bus, which meant getting out of bed --
(even now, ten years later, I still have a lot of trouble getting out of bed -- wait, I have ALWAYS had a hard time getting out of bed*!) 
    -- dragging some clothes plus shoes on so I could run to the bus, & one time, all my own clothes dirty, I grabbed a pair of his cords and yanked them on (he was pretty thin) plus a sweatshirt over my head and as I ran to the door the pants fell to my ankles.

         Wow, I thought dully, I’m skinny. 

         And all that ended up meaning to me – to me!  Who agonized over those HIDEOUS TEN POUNDS in high school -- and now people have e-mailed me pix from then and I was in fact NOT FAT!  Chipmunk-cheeked, God yes, but fat??  Not really!  
        ['That’s the problem,' my friend Flo commiserated with me when I told her, 'We still have fat heads']
       – all that weight loss (at least 20 lbs) ended up meaning to me was that I needed a fucking BELT.  C'est tout!
       However:  I do not wish to stray from my point (even though I have, greatly, and more than once already, I know, I know!)

         WHATEVER.  My point is that underwear was the last thing I had time for.  I yanked on a pair of unlaundered jeans, I kept the shirt, I brushed my teeth, I scrounged for change, and then I went and waited for the goddamn bus, which was more than once so late I missed my so!  Necessary!  Appt at the clinic.
          I have gone commando ever since. 

         And here’s the thing:  I told both of my friends about this only to find out that one of them (advised by her mother – a working RN then -- when she was little not to wear her ‘draws’ at night because 'parts need some airing out') has also been going commando for – apparently, but don’t quote me on this – decades since, and the other one has been going commando ever since I told her that story!!

         Well.

         I just want to say it was one of my proudest moments.

         And if you don’t get that, all I can say is –

         you ain’t one a my tribe!

*(re which:  all my best work is done in bed)