I See London, I See France

The next time I so much as hint at purchasing a new pair of underwear, whether they are pink or lavender, paisley print, or on sale for one-ninety-nine, stop me. Create a diversion, physically restrain me, steal my wallet, whatever it takes. I do not need one more pair. This evening, I stacked forty seven pairs, arranged by style and color, of course, in my top drawer, and that tally does not take into account the periwinkle hibiscus print pair I’m wearing or any that linger in the laundry cycle. I challenge anyone who thinks their collection could transcend mine. It’s extravagant. It’s superfluous. It’s wonderful.

I love underwear. I think it’s the perfect accessory. It never goes out of style. It coordinates with everything. It’s appropriate on any occasion. It’s available in assorted varieties. It’s an easy pick-me-up. And even if you keep it a secret, it’s still always fun for you. For instance, I love it when my underwear matches my outfit. I smile about it all day. But really. Enough is enough. No matter how cute that next pair is, remind me to exercise control. Halt. Step away from the panties.

quote of the day: “creativity is a drug I cannot live without.” – Cecil B. Demille