One time, I asked my wife, “Honey, is it okay if I wear thongs?” to whatever outing we were attending.
She looked over her decidedly sexy glasses at me, then curled her lip in disgust (not so sexy all of a sudden). “I will hurl if I EV-ER see you in a thong!” she enunciated in case I couldn’t hear her, “Your hairy legs go straight into your back completely bypassing any feature that resembles a butt!” She then made noises like a cat coughing up a hairball. I got the idea.
I was actually referring to the very comfortable sandals that secure to the foot by a strap that runs between the big toe and #2 (said in the accent of Mike Myers as Dr. Evil). I have known them as thongs since childhood; That was long before I knew underwear existed that rode within the chasm between the cheeks, so to speak. My wife, much less political than I, called it butt floss (I made noises resembling a cat coughing up a hairball).
After I explained my meaning, she said, “Those are called flip-flops, thongs are underwear. Don’t ever refer to footwear as ‘thongs’ in my presence again.” She has a very direct way of closing a subject to discussion. Who knows, maybe she had a traumatic thong experience in her past. I giggled at the mental image of her hung up by her panties on a chain link fence.
For the next several days my obsessive mind pondered the discussion we’d had over sandals. I could not embrace the term flip-flops for my beloved footwear; that sounded like something your stomach does when you are in LOVE (all caps LOVE, not lowercase love). So, I broached the subject from a tangent, subtly, as I was wont to, “What if I don’t want a panty line with these shorts?” I asked, twisting so she could see my rear.
“Don’t wear underwear,” she said.
My mind was so blown by her response, I forgot where I was headed with the conversation. She waited patiently while I sputtered and gasped in shock. No underwear?! Is that even legal? What about chafing? When she rolled her eyes and walked away, I tried to discern a panty line beneath her yoga pants. For shame! I felt a little horrified and a little titillated at the same time.
I caught myself looking covertly at my wife’s backside whenever we walked next to each other. Who was this daring, mysterious person who may or may not be wearing undergarments? When she caught me looking, I said, “I ‘all caps’ love you; You complete me.” (Dr. Evil again) She just kind of sneered and snorted, as she is wont to. There is a lot of wont-ing in our family.
One day, she revisited the taboo subject. Pointing at the low-rise waist swinging and bobbing ahead of us, she said, “That is a whale’s tail. Very trashy.” I was mortified because she was referring to a very obvious thong showing above some woman’s tight jeans. It was somewhat in the shape of the ocean-going mammal’s propulsion system as it bloomed from the cleft that peeked above her belt.
I stubbornly continue to call my sandals “thongs”, and my wife continues to correct me with “flip-flops”. She, however, is the one routinely mortified when I tuck my shirt into the top of my “whale’s tail” before an outing. Yeah, it may be trashy…but I hate that panty line with my shorts, and can’t bear the thought of going unencumbered, so to speak. Besides…it completes me (little finger to lip).
Get your own whale’s tail here (Amazon affiliate link)