Confessions of an Underwear Hoarder

Have you ever watched the television show Hoarders? I used to sit in disgusted amazement, wondering how a normal person ends up living in such filth. Does it happen all at once like a psychotic break or does it slowly build up over time until one day you wake up surrounded by mismatched socks and TVs that haven’t worked since Reagan was in office?

I’m certainly no stranger to clutter. I understand having too many things you love and not enough space to store them. I’m as sentimental as the next person, but I’ve never understood how a person ends up burying themselves in piles of junk to which they have no emotional attachment: empty coffee cans, clothes three sizes too big, and old dusty newspapers from a town where they’ve never lived.

That is, I never understood it until now.

To my horror, I have recently discovered that I am an underwear hoarder: pointlessly and relentlessly filling my closet to its breaking point with ratty panties I haven’t worn since before I met my husband. Why do I keep them? I certainly don’t feel a sentimental attachment to the faded scraps of material that once shielded my hindquarters.

Is it a misguided attempt at frugality? As long as they are still in one piece than they can still perform their intended function. Maybe. It does mean I can do laundry once a month without running out of underwear. However, it still doesn’t explain all the pairs I found hanging on for dear life in the back of my drawer.

While cleaning out my closet in a fit of hormonally-driven, nesting fury I decided it was time to cull a few of these lingerie relics to make room for all the maternity clothes I’d be needing soon. Let’s face it, I’ve been exclusively wearing my maternity underwear for the last two years anyway. I rifled through at least one hundred pairs of underwear of varying ages and pulled out two-dozen pairs that made me wonder whether I should call up Dr. Phil now while there’s still hope for me.

Some of the material had gotten so old that it came apart in my hands. There were pairs with rips and tears in just about every possible seam. Many of them were in danger of splitting in two at the crotch. I’ve heard of easy access, but this seemed over the line.

I tried not to question the logistics of how my ass literally burst free of several pairs of underwear, and threw them straight into the trash. That’s right, destroy the evidence.

Then there were the pairs that had been ravaged by the dogs.

I’m not sure what it is about underwear that they find so appealing, but I’m guessing it’s related to why they eat their own poop too. I was stubbornly clinging to several pairs whose crotch looked more like Swiss cheese than lingerie. At some point crotchless panties cease to be erotic and become impractical. They’re not exactly holding up their end of the bargain, are they?

I said a tearful goodbye to the holey panties and relinquished them to the dogs to finish the job.

Don’t even get me started on the stained pairs…

Finally came the hardest surplus panties to part with: the thongs (and I don’t just mean because they were wedged between my butt cheeks).

They were still in near perfect condition, because even when I had an ass I wanted to show off I hated thongs. Regardless, my economical side found it difficult to throw away perfectly good clothes, no matter how badly they chaffed my private areas.

There definitely comes a point in a woman’s life when her rear end expands to a size where a thong stops being sexy and looks more like your butt swallowed your underwear. It’s not a good look. I prefer my clothing to cover my cellulite rather than highlight it. Surely I’m not the only one.

I thought briefly about donating them to the Goodwill, but there’s something unsettling about the thought of a stranger walking around wearing my butt-floss. I don’t even like seeing people driving my old car.

In the end, I stuffed the thongs back into the depths of my underwear drawer and reminded myself to take things slow. It had been a trying afternoon.

Perhaps I can attend some sort of underwear hoarders’ support group or twelve step program. I assure you, I’m looking into it. But in the meantime, if you come looking for me and can’t find me, check the closet under the mountain of granny panties who’ve seen better days, thongs who’ve never been worn, and lacey panties my butt will never fit in again.

However, if you see any coffee cans or stacks of newspapers laying around, it’s probably too late.

Just leave me there.

Mary Widdicks is a 31-year-old mom to two boys and two male dogs. Once a cognitive psychologist, she now spends the majority of her time trying to outsmart her kids (and failing!). Being the only girl in the family means that sometimes her voice gets drowned out by fart jokes and belching contests. She started blogging so she’d have a place to escape the testosterone and share her hilarious life with the rest of the world. Mary’s writing has been featured on other parenting sites such as Mamalode, and Scary Mommy. She is a regular contributor on BLUNTmoms and has been honored as a 2014 Voice of the Year by BlogHer, and Badass Blogger of the Year by The Indie Chicks. Follow her on her humorous parenting blog www.outmannedmommy.com, Twitter, Facebook and Pinterest.