the strange case of unconsidered underwear

I’ve wondered, not too rarely from time to time when events of related-nature work to remind me, of the peculiar particulars which surround the mysteries of underwear. One can speak confidently and freely only from one’s own experiences, and of these I have two – the Malaysian underwear mystery, and the Australian underwear mystery. Let me snag you into the first. Mentally picture a densely filled bah zhang (or de-boned meat cocooned snugly in net, deli-style, if you prefer), and we be on our way.

I say snag deliberately, for what underwear (always a part of a set – thank heavens the rest are spared!) I have come across, is underwear which must necessarily become a hurdle of a hold-up, and catch onto the body like a drowning rat on driftwood. Tell me, what in the name of all things practical, possesses the makers of such underwear to make them in – sit down now – free size?! The stupidity of that I refuse to even discuss, so blatant is the error of their ways. My disbelief is only spurred further by their going against what is to me, the obvious benefit of making bigger rather than impossibly small. But of Malaysian folly I shall say no more.

Moving on to the Australians. I suppose one cannot expect too much out of convict descendents, but I do think this is pea-brained. Tell me if you think I’m being too harsh. In this case, both maker and user are daft. First, the dense makers make them in sizes 10, 12, 14… which in truth, are actually 6, 8, 10… which then, make the supposed 6, 8, 10s really 2, 4, 6. More power to the bah zhang. Of course, we mustn’t forget the morons who buy them. Can they not see that podgy is not beautiful? Or am I on a planet of aesthetics of my very own? So the makers are mentally wanting. If you were a faction smarter then them, buy the size 10 if in reality, you’re a dress size 6. And to think I suck at math. All I can make of it, is that these shoppers work on auto pilot, and their fragile egos cannot bear the thought of wearing something (supposedly) two sizes up. Their not-so-fragile bodily lumps and humps sure do make up for it.

The conclusion to both cases be that, were I to succumb to using such nonsensical harnesses of torture, is that I would be no better than a bah zhang on legs; the tightly wound string, the underwear; the pregnant oozing body of glutinous rice, me. Indeed, not a pretty sight.

NB: By no means am I condoning the use of frumpy, air-pocket granny undies here. Go lace, satin, ribbons all the way – just in the fitted, not squeeze-to-death version, thanks.