I always thought that when I reached a certain age, I would undergo a point of maturity in which I would cross that line that separates a girl from a woman. One where I would wake up one morning and suddenly I would pay my bills on time, get the oil in my car changed every six months, and not giggle every time someone said the word "balls." I'm beginning to think I was wrong.
Every month, without fail, I get a phone call that goes a little something like this:
"Uh, hey Miss Garmany, it's Steve from Time Warner Cable again. Listen, you owe us some money. And I'm serious this time, if you don't pay, we are going to shut off your services. That means no Lifetime. Which means no Lifetime Original Movies. Which means, you're going to have to find a better way to spend your Saturday nights."
Also, I haven't had the oil in my car changed since January of 2009. At first, it was just out of sheer laziness, but now I'm actually sort of curious to see how long I can ride this out. I guess I'll know in those few minutes after my car blows up on the highway and I die a slow, painful, fiery death.
And come on. Balls. I laughed just typing it.
If the cotton panty is the Toyota Camry of underwear, than the granny panty is the Buick LeSabre of underwear.I also naively believed that the day would come when I would do my laundry at least once a week and not let it get piled up in a disgusting, smelly heap on my closet floor. Wrong again. If anything, I've gotten worse as I age. I now take it as a challenge to see how long I can go before doing my laundry. And then I make it a challenge to see how many clothes I can cram into one load because I'm cheap and my apartment complex only offers coin-operated machines. This usually results in a significant portion of my clothes coming out of the dryer still wet because there were too many clothes and not enough heat to dry them all. It also usually results in the lady that lives in the apartment next to the laundry room coming out and yelling at me for throwing the washing machine off balance. Get over it lady, it's been six months now and though you've yelled at me at least seven times, I still throw it off balance with every single load.
Anyway, going back to my personal challenge on how long I can go before doing said laundry, I've begun gauging how long I have left based on the type of underwear I am wearing. I've even gone so far as to develop underwear levels. I don't usually start panicking until I reach a Level 4 Underwear Emergency. What exactly does this mean? Well, let's just say that if the United States of America were on a Level 4 Underwear Emergency, all domestic flights would be grounded.
I've carefully written out the different levels to give you a better understanding of what I'm working with here.
Level 1: Cotton Panty Emergency
I know what most of you are thinking: cotton panties? Really, Ashley? Yes, there's nothing I enjoy more than slipping into a nice pair of Hanes Her Way bikini briefs. To me, it's like wearing sweatpants on a cold, rainy day. My favorite thing to do is to put on a pair right after they come out of the dryer when they're all warm and snug. It's like Christmas in my pants.
I like the comfort and spaciousness that the Cotton Panty offers. It's like the Toyota Camry of underwear.
While it can comfortably fit a family of four, it still offers a certain amount of style and class. It's for this reason that the cotton panty is my panty of choice; therefore, I know that if I still have a few pairs of these babies in my drawer, there is absolutely no need for me to even think about doing my laundry.
Level 2: Thong Emergency
It's not that I necessarily mind having a thin piece of cloth shoved up my ass all day, but it's not my most favorite brand of unmentionables. For one thing, every time I wear a thong, I'm constantly checking to make sure my shirt hasn't ridden up, exposing my Whale Tail for the world to see. (For those of you asking, "Hey Ashley, what's a Whale Tail?" please refer to the below picture.)
Even so, when I run out of my cotton skivvies, the thongs are next on my natural progression of underroos. Also, thongs are the most logical type of knickers to wear in the event that you might be getting some ass. When a guy sees that you're wearing thongs, he usually thinks, "Oh, this girl is down for a visit to Pound Town." As opposed to the real reason I'm wearing thongs: because even the threat of having a polyester-nylon blend crammed so far up my backside I can feel it in my throat is still not reason enough for me to wash my delicates.
Level 3: Granny Panty Emergency
If the cotton panty is the Toyota Camry of underwear, than the granny panty is the Buick LeSabre of underwear. This is the point at which an alarm starts ringing in my head: DANGER! DANGER! Must do laundry soon or seriously exacerbate the possibility of never having sex ever again!
Maybe it's psychological, but every time I wear my granny panties, I get the sudden urge for a glass of warm milk and a Werther's Original Hard Candy. I also feel the overwhelming urge to drive to a suburb and yell at children passing by to get off my damn lawn.
You'd be surprised, though, how much all of this does not deter me from further putting off cleaning my clothes in lieu of sitting on my couch and watching a rerun of The Golden Girls.
Level 4: Lingerie Emergency
I know most of you are thinking, "What the hell?" with this one, but stay with me. Ladies, you know those underwear that you never wear unless you know with 100% certainty that you're going to be getting sexed in the way only Marvin Gaye can put into words? (Also known as the underwear that typically sits at the bottom of my undergarment drawer, with a thin layer of dust atop it.) Due to sheer discomfort, this underwear is usually worn then and only then. Unless your name is Ashley Garmany and you haven't done your laundry since the economy crashed. The first time.
Try not to get too turned on by this imagery, because chances are, if I'm too lazy to spend $3 to avoid having to wear this get-up to work under my Starbucks green apron then I probably haven't shaved my legs for the better part of 2010.
Level 5: Commando Emergency
Rarely have I reached this level. I mean, I have to go quite a bit of time and clean out a rather sizeable amount of skivvies before I stoop this low. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy a nice breeze around my nether-region from time to time; however, flashing my Britney Spears to a group of pre-pubescent boys as I exit my car at the local mall is definitely enough to terrify me into doing my laundry. I mean, I hardly ever let men my own age get to third base with me, let alone Timmy Jr., who has yet to figure out what the stirring in his pants means.
Usually the Lingerie Emergency causes enough distress around my tater tot that my schedule suddenly frees up and I have all the time in the world to do a load of whites. Yet on the seldom occasion that I do make it this far into The Great Drawers Depression, I am once again amazed by my true utter lack of regard for my own vaginal comfort.
Now that I've shared all of this with you, you're probably wondering what level I'm at and what kind of underwear I'm currently wearing. Well, I'm not going to tell you. I am, however, going to go to the bathroom right now and pry Victoria's Secret out of my buttcheeks so I can pee.