Put Your Hand Up If You Don't Wear Underpants
"Put your hand up if you don't wear underpants,"
hits my ears and leaves me floored as I step into the critique room where my peers stand in a circle around a display table.
As I near the table I notice that there are a series of images sprawled out and I ponder the possibilities of pornographic content as I stay frozen in my tracks, head cocked to the side. My proffessor motions for me to come closer. Closer. Skeptically, I step into the circle of giggling college students who still twitter at the mention of undergarments.
My assumptions are abandoned as a fellow student expresses the thesis behind her postcard series "of the future." Finding the subject matter to be utterly boring, my mind wanders away from the usual prediction of uniformity and complete conformity. Briefly I think about bricolage, before reaching the important topic.
Underpants. What were my favourite underpants?
Aesthetically, I always enjoyed the little tighty whiteys in a boy cut... but without the granny toosh.
However, my favourite pair of panties had to have been the set I had when I was very young. Around 5 or 6. They had little lady bugs on the front, enjoying 7 different activities, with a subtitle on each one of each day of the week.
I was such a rebel in my youth and would often carry a smug smile on my face as I knew that I was wearing Wednesday panties... even though it was clearly Friday.
If my class mates only knew.
(Yeah. So recall your favourite pair/set of underwear.)
