Yesterday I wore white underwear.
This may not seem worth writing about, but it was the first time since October 6 of last year. It’s a bizarre thing, but I have been unable to wear anything other than black panties (eew, I hate that word -panties- it sounds so euphemistic and girly) since the D&C. It started out as a practical measure, due to endless bleeding, but evolved into an odd statement/security blanket. Somehow the dark fabric was a sign that all was not well in my twat. The black camouflage acted as a talisman to ward off additional evil. (Hitchhiker fans will note that this is not unlike the defensive strategy of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal: If you can’t see it, it can’t see you.) And of course, it stood as symbol of loss.
However, when I went to get dressed yesterday morning, I saw that all of my requisite black underwear had had migrated to Mt. NevaDoDaLaundree and was unlikely to return anytime soon. Even the desperation underwear, one random pair of gray panties (yes, my entire underwear wardrobe consists of plain white, black, and gray jockey bikinis – Cait, who matches her underwear color to her outfit, thinks I’m nuts) was gone. So I picked up one of the many white pairs that have sat forlornly in the drawer for seven months and got dressed.
I know, I know, this is not the type of event that sets the AP wires humming and brings out the news vans (and thank god, since neither I nor my underwear wish to be on the news). But it is significant. It appears that my crotchety crotch is ready to move on. There have certainly been other times since the miscarriage that the black underwear supply has run out, causing great anxiety and leading me to creative/repulsive responses such as
- staying in pajamas until I had washed and dried a load of darks
- turning my current underwear inside out
- or hell, just wearing it a second day (and with that confession, my site stats plummet…).
Yesterday, by comparison, I merely noted the dearth of doleful drawers and took what was available. I didn’t even realize the significance of the event until about mid-day.
Odd milestone that it is, I’m glad to have reached it. The mind-crotch connection is a powerful thing, and I would not have wanted to inseminate with a grumpy cooter. If my body were still mourning the loss of the last pregnancy, I would be worried that it might fight another conception. I’m taking this as a sign that my body and my subconscious are now ready to try again (and just in time, as we’re planning to start again next cycle).
Or maybe I should just get some new underwear. Feel free to suggest a new color and why you think it’s a good choice.
*President of the “Crotch In Mourning” fan club