underwear gunk

est. 1975 talks "underwear gunk" - it's gynecological, it's educational, it's just plain funny! #funny #humor #womenshealth #hygiene #underwear #underweargunk #est1975blog @est1975blog

Not long after I started puberty, I became convinced that something was wrong with me. Something very wrong, and VERY gross.

A mysterious gunk had started to appear in my underwear.

Now, I know what you’re thinking:

est. 1975 talks "underwear gunk" - it's gynecological, it's educational, it's just plain funny! #funny #humor #womenshealth #hygiene #underwear #underweargunk #est1975blog @est1975blog

You bet your sweet asses we are.

It was 1988 when I came into adolescence like a Wild West sheriff busting through a set of dusty saloon doors. In those days, brand new teenagers had a lot of questions, but few answers. There was no Internet back then. No World Wide Web. No comprehensive font of knowledge that everyone could access. The best a kid my age could hope for in those days was the World Book Encyclopedia, and as a source of information it had the following flaws:

  1. You had to trek all the way over to the library to look at it;
  2. You had to use it at the reference desk in front of God and everyone;
  3. It was *always* out of date; and
  4. It absolutely 100% did NOT deal with questions about yucky things happening in underpants.
est. 1975 talks "underwear gunk" - it's gynecological, it's educational, it's just plain funny! #funny #humor #womenshealth #hygiene #underwear #underweargunk #est1975blog @est1975blog
Useless.

Long story short, I found myself in a bit of a pickle when I hit my teens and began finding stuff in my panties that had never been there before. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it, because mortified. And I had no place to learn about it, because 1988. So for the next TEN YEARS I just reconciled myself to the fact that I was a disgusting weirdo with a nasty vagina and white slime in her underpants.

I became so immune to the whole phenomenon that when the Internet finally did become a thing, it never occurred to me to Ask Jeeves if he ever got snail trails in his panties. (And in hindsight, I’m relieved I didn’t—I’m not sure I would have been comfortable with the results.) I continued to live on in ignorance, keeping my used panties tucked WAY down at the bottom of the hamper, and *never* letting my ex-husband do the laundry.

est. 1975 talks "underwear gunk" - it's gynecological, it's educational, it's just plain funny! #funny #humor #womenshealth #hygiene #underwear #underweargunk #est1975blog @est1975blog
I’m not going to lie. I also resorted to a lot of this.

Time passed, however, and when I reached my thirties, I noticed that my conversations with lady friends were starting to become more and more intimate. I mean, not “HEY GUYS, DO YOU EVER GET WHITE CRAP IN YOUR UNDERWEAR? I KNOW I DO!” intimate. Well—not at first. But I was hopeful that over time I would be able to broach the subject.

Finally, one day, I did.

“So . . . guys. I was kinda curious about something. I was wondering, if you can you know . . . TELL . . . I mean, just by looking, not by taking a big whiff or anything. . . if a pair of your underwear has already been worn?”

At first, silence.

Then:

“OH MY GOD. YES.”

“TOTALLY!”

“YOU MEAN, I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE?”

“WHAT IS THAT STUFF?”

“IT’S DISGUSTING.”

At which point a glorious and enlightening conversation about underwear gunk began to take shape. We talked colors. We talked consistencies. We talked dry versus wet. Smell versus no smell. “Normal” gunk versus “I should really see a doctor about this” gunk. How pregnancy made it SO MUCH WORSE.

We discussed how certain times of the month made the gunk heavier, and other times lighter. We discussed stain removal techniques. We discussed what it was called (“vaginal discharge”). What it should be called (“snizz jizz”). What we told our husbands about it (“a bird keeps pooping in my underwear.”)

est. 1975 talks "underwear gunk" - it's gynecological, it's educational, it's just plain funny! #funny #humor #womenshealth #hygiene #underwear #underweargunk #est1975blog @est1975blog
Ain’t no party like an underwear gunk party.

The entire conversation was amazing. I don’t think I’d ever felt more relieved in my life. If you’ll excuse the debased metaphor, it was as if a goopy white burden had been lifted from my 100% cotton shoulders.

Long story short, if you’re a lady, you’re gonna gross up your smalls. End of story. It’s totally normal. But it’s also one of those things they don’t tell you about in sex ed class, and most people’s mothers aren’t going to say anything about it either. So to make up for that, I’ve decided to go ahead and take on the responsibility of acting as the world’s first advocate of Underwear Gunk Awareness. Don’t believe me? Here’s my first public service announcement:

est. 1975 talks "underwear gunk" - it's gynecological, it's educational, it's just plain funny! #funny #humor #womenshealth #hygiene #underwear #underweargunk #est1975blog @est1975blog

Ladies everywhere: you’re welcome.

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If you haven’t already done so, consider following est. 1975 on Facebook, Twitter, and/or Pinterest! I add fresh, hilarious material every single day.

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Photo credits:
“Sir Thomas Gresham (1519-1579)” – Antonis Mor. Circa 1560. PD – Art. Source: The Yorck Project: 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei. DVD-ROM, 2002. Distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. – Modified
World Book Encyclopedia (1990). Photo taken in the library of Central European University. Source: Nataev. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.
“A Woman Praying” – Willem de Poorter. First half of 17th century. PD – Art. Source: Web Gallery of Art. – Modified
“Women Talk” – Elisabeth Nourse. Circa 1900. PD – Copyright Term Expired. Source: Nieuwe schoenen – Modified

sexy lingerie? BYE, FELICIA!

est. 1975 USED to love herself some sexy lingerie. Not anymore, my friends. Not. Anymore. #funny #humor #est1975 #est1975blog #lingerie #panties #grannypanties @est1975blog

When I first met my husband, I was 26 and he was 25. I rocked a body back then, and so did he. That time was a time of mutual physical admiration, lots and lots of getting-to-know-you sex, and (at least in my case) an almost unholy amount of tiny underthings.

Tiny underthings. Those over-sheer wisps of mesh and lace that look sexy as hell but offer basically nothing in the way of foundation or support. Tiny underthings can range from demi-bras to balconettes, gartered stockings to lace-top thigh highs, teeny bikini-cut panties to thong underwear that constitutes little more than a string and a prayer.

During that first year with my husband, I went on regular shopping sprees for new dainties. I was known to descend on the lingerie shops shrieking “TAKE MY MONEY” until my bank account was drained and a thousand tiny pink bags of useless lace fragments were mine.

est. 1975 USED to love herself some sexy lingerie. Not anymore, my friends. Not. Anymore. #funny #humor #est1975 #est1975blog #lingerie #panties #grannypanties @est1975blog
‘Twas my home away from home.

However, much to my husband’s disappointment, my flirtation with tiny underthings did not last long. Mainly because THAT SHIT IS UNCOMFORTABLE. AND EXPENSIVE. AND HIGH-MAINTENANCE. Don’t get me wrong, I cast no aspersions upon women who manage to make sexy lingerie work for them. But I myself just . . . couldn’t. Believe me, I tried.

And I failed.

You see, after about a year of tiny underthings, several realities about them became abundantly clear:

  • Tiny underthings did not play nice with my vajay. They were itchy, clammy, and yeast infection-y. My vaginal chemistry was *never* happy. I longed for a cotton gusset.
  • Tiny underthings required too much special washing and handling. My mother told me: “Buy a lingerie bag, some Woolite, and throw it all in the washing machine on delicate.” Lingerie bag? Woolite? A washing machine cycle other than “whatever it’s already on”? Yeah, none of that ever happened. I threw my expensive lingerie in the wash with towels and jeans, and watched it disintegrate instantly.
  • Tiny underthings simply don’t cut it when you’re a relatively busty woman with considerable back door biscuits. To put it bluntly, I needed lingerie with a lot more muscle and know-how. I required underwire. I required full coverage. I required reinforced straps and a serious amount of hooks. I required bras so big that my husband and I could stand side by side and wear each cup as a hat (and later did.)

So I gave up on tiny underthings, as well as the extra helping of self-confidence that comes with them. But you know what? I have no regrets. Because, you see, I no longer have quadra-boob from trying to stuff my flabby bosom into a too-small balconette bra that the Victoria’s Secret saleswomen ASSURED me would fit like a glove. I no longer have crack chafe from a gritty piece of butt floss jammed in my sweaty swamp-ass all day. And best of all? Yeast infections are at an all-time low.

est. 1975 USED to love herself some sexy lingerie. Not anymore, my friends. Not. Anymore. #funny #humor #est1975 #est1975blog #lingerie #panties #grannypanties @est1975blog
My “now” undergarments: 1) A humongous yet functional bra that is beyond mangled from having been washed repeatedly with things like jeans, sneakers, and possibly chunks of rebar; and 2) A humongous pair of granny panties that are faded as all hell but would undoubtedly work great in place of a mainsail or field tarp.

And just so you know? While I may have moved on to full-coverage old lady bras and 100% cotton underdudes years ago, I’ve only just recently taken the next step. What many might consider the LAST step. You see, I had a hysterectomy, and now there’s a big old abdominal scar that’s right where the elastic part of my old cotton panties nestle into the roll. I can’t have that anymore. I’m all numb down there, and the skin around my hysterectomy scar feels weird, and I just don’t like anything touching it. (Hyster sisters, I know you feel me.)

So what’s the solution? I hear you asking.

The solution, my dears, is granny panties. And if you don’t have any? I HIGHLY SUGGEST PICKING SOME UP. They are comfortable. They are supportive. They are beloved of hipsters everywhere. Oh, you’re worried they’re unsexy? Well to that I say: husbands and boyfriends and partners of all gender identities be damned. It’s time for them to grow up, move on from their fixation with tiny underthings, and say: “Sexy lingerie? BYE, FELICIA!”

est. 1975 USED to love herself some sexy lingerie. Not anymore, my friends. Not. Anymore. #funny #humor #est1975 #est1975blog #lingerie #panties #grannypanties @est1975blog
My feelings on the subject of lingerie THESE days.

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An earlier version of this piece was published in 2014 on BLUNTmoms.

If you haven’t already done so, consider following est. 1975 on Facebook, Twitter, and/or Pinterest! I add fresh, hilarious material every single day.

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Photo credits:
“Bloomers – Rear Image”: CC BY 2.0; File:Bloomers Rear Image.png; Uploaded by З2Х; Created: 17 July 2010
“Panties styles”: CC BY-SA 3.0; File:Panties styles – en.svg; Uploaded by Moyogo; Created: 5 June 2010 — Modified
“Victoria’s Secret Store”: CC BY-SA 3.0; File:Victoria’s Secret Store 9, 722 Lexington Ave, New York, NY 10022, USA – Dec 2012.JPG; Uploaded by WestportWiki; Created: 3 December 2012

and panties all in a bunch

1839: Oil on canvas by Edward Delacroix: Tasso à l'hôpital de St Anne Ferrara (Tasso in the Madhouse) - public domain

If you’re a regular fan of this blog, or if you follow me on social media at all, chances are good you’ve already deduced  that yes, I do indeed suffer from a mighty case of depression.

And you would not be wrong.

Still. I wouldn’t go changing your name to “Columbo” just yet. For one thing, you need a fake eyeball, a dirty trench coat, and 38 thousand packs of cigarettes to really sell it. More to the point, you need to be able to crack cases a LOT tougher than this one. I mean, it’s not exactly Unsolved Mysteries over here. I’m pretty sure just about anyone with access to the evidence would come to the same conclusion.

Let’s take a look at the facts, shall we?

  • Given the choice between taking a nap or a shower, I alwZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz
  • I have actually said the words: “I’m not tired enough to sleep, but I am too tired to watch television.”
  • My idea of a good time? Eating vast quantities of Chinese food, then falling asleep instantly.
  • *sees hairbrush* “Not today.”
  • *sees toothbrush* “Nah.”
  • When my husband gets home from a long day at work, I find the best way to greet him is to ugly-cry for 45 minutes about how I stubbed my pinky toe on the washing machine seven hours ago.
  • I have actually thought to myself: “Thank God my son is in school full-time, otherwise when would I watch my six hours of YouTube videos a day?”
  • “My glasses are dirty.” *does nothing about it*
  • “I forgot to put on deodorant.” *does nothing about it*
  • “Is that a skid mark in my underwear?” *does nothing about it*
  • “I’m a month behind on my work.” *binge-watches The Blacklist*

I guess what I’m saying is: Calm your boobs, Sherlock. It wasn’t like you needed to bring in a profiler or anything to figure this shit out.

But worry not, loyal readers. NEVER FEAR. I’m not going to take you through any kind of detailed explanation of my 25-year history of depression, mainly because it’s really boring and not even remotely funny. (Also boring.) I’ll spare you the long litany of my daily complaints, ranging from “I’m sad today” to “I’ll probably be sad tomorrow” to “How long have I been wearing these pajamas?”

That said, I do think you guys might get a laugh out of just how bunched my panties can get over dumb, relatively unimportant shit when I’m in the throes of my depression. Because that part IS actually pretty funny, especially when you’re looking at it from the outside in. AND there’s pictures.

So go burn some microwave popcorn, pull up a chair with a busted spring in it, and get ready to accompany me on a journey through

THE DUMB SHIT THAT BUNCHES MY PANTIES WHEN I’M DEPRESSED

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DUMB SHIT #1: My son’s pajama drawer. Every evening I tell my son to get his pajamas on. Every evening I tell him not to make a huge mess of his pajama drawer. Every evening I walk into his bedroom and find this:

pjdrawergif
Also? This is actually not even half as bad as it usually is.

METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: They’re not actually up IN the crack, but they’re definitely threatening to go there. All it would take is one wrong move with a butt cheek.

MANIFESTATION: Wandering around and muttering: “You know what I LOVE? Saying the same damn shit, day after day, to people who can’t even be bothered to pretend that they’re listening. Why no, I’m not being sarcastic! I’m serious as a heart attack over here! Being habitually ignored in my own home truly is the wind beneath my wings.”

MITIGATION: An entire pint of ice cream, eaten alone and in silence, all while glaring and making the obvious statement of not offering any to anyone else.

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DUMB SHIT #2: Slicing my toe open while shaving off my toe hairs. I mean, I could just *pluck* my toe hairs. Or I could use a fresh razor blade on my toe hairs instead of the one I’ve been using since September 11th (never forget). Or I could just not do anything at all about my toe hairs because nobody gives an actual fuck. But no! I have to shave them off BECAUSE HAVING NO TOE HAIRS MAKES YOU SUPER HOT. JUST LOOK:

bloodytoegif
I Photoshopped my toe wrinkles out of this picture *way* more than I care to admit. And you can still see a butt ton of toe wrinkles. So clearly that was a good use of my time.

HOT.

METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: Making a comfortable home in the ass crack, but not so deep that they can’t be dislodged with an awkward chair swivel or an overly animated walk to the restroom.

MANIFESTATION: Crying buck-ass naked on the toilet, trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow of toe blood with a rapidly disintegrating wad of cheap toilet paper, and repeating “I hate men” over and over again.

MITIGATION: A huge bowl of pasta with cream sauce and extra Parmesan cheese. And don’t you dare forget the garlic bread. Seriously. DON’T FORGET IT. I’ll push your mother down the god damn stairs.

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DUMB SHIT #3: The day-old cup of coffee found on the floor next to my husband’s side of the bed. I mean, it makes sense to drink a cup of coffee in bed, doesn’t it? Get that nice big oily jolt of caffeine right before trying to go to sleep? I know that’s what gets me ready for Mr. Sandman. I especially like to not actually finish the coffee, and instead just leave it on the floor for someone else to pick up, or perhaps accidentally drop a dirty sock into. That just sends me straight to dreamland.

floorcoffeegif
If you’re questioning whether or not this photo is staged, I can assure you it is 100% the REAL DEAL.

METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: Where the edges keep darting into your butt crack for what seems to be short recon missions. First the right side, then the left. They’re never all the way in, they’re never all the way out.

MANIFESTATION: Staring at the cup of coffee for a second, then deciding to just leave it there until someone else just fucking deals with it. Slumping both head and shoulders in defeat when the realization hits that NO ONE ELSE is going to fucking deal with it. Then, with a morose sigh and a half-hearted “Eh. FINE,” giving in and bringing the coffee mug down to the dishwasher.

MITIGATION: Writing about it on the Internet for all to read.

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DUMB SHIT #4: The person who installed the light switches in my bathroom like THIS:

lightswitchesgif
It’s interesting because there are tools out there that prevent stuff like this from happening. Levels, yardsticks, even the side of a piece of frickin’ printer paper. But no. YOU had to do it freehand, YOU STUPID JACKASS.

METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: Practically in the rectum. Will have to be manually dislodged at a later point, when there are sure to be no witnesses. They’ll then go straight into the washing machine because reasons.

MANIFESTATION: A pure, unadulterated hatred of the universe. Sullen, empty threats to “burn this whole jacked-up house to the ground” and “move into a dirty dumpster” because even that would be better than spending one more minute in “this janky pile of shit.”

MITIGATION: Taking two Night-time Mucinex and hitting the sack at 9:30 PM.

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So! I hope you guys have enjoyed this little  tour of the ridiculous bunched-panty moments of a depressed person. You know, they say you can’t truly understand someone unless you’ve walked a mile in his or her shoes house slippers linty dollar-store socks with cat hair on them.

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I realize that my linty dollar-store socks don’t look particularly appealing. But I’m pretty sure you’d rather walk a mile in these than in a pair of my bunched-up panties.

EDIT: Thanks to Jeff of Jeff and Jill Went Up the Hill for helping out with this piece, despite being in recovery from “the snip.” If you’re feeling generous, check out his blog, or send him a bag of frozen peas. Whichev.

If you haven’t already done so, consider following est. 1975 on Facebook, Twitter, and/or Pinterest! I add fresh, hilarious material every single day.

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Photo credits:
1839: Oil on canvas by Edward Delacroix: Tasso à l’hôpital de St Anne Ferrara (Tasso in the Madhouse) – public domain — modified