Under where?

There are certain conversations that you are never prepared for, even though you know there’s going to be one for the record books that will pop up at any given moment.

“What are these?” says my mother, holding up a pair of my underwear in her hand as if they’re covered in poo. Why she has my underwear in her hand is not known to me.

“They’re underwear.”

“I know what they are!” she says. “But whose are they?”

“They’re mine.” I roll my eyes. Why are we having this conversation?

“They can’t possibly be yours! They’re tiny! Look at them! They must be from some kid.”

Does she really think I’m some pedophile, collecting children’s underwear?

“No, they’re mine.” I’m already exasperated.

“What’s wrong with you? Look at the size of these things.” She continues to hold them at an arm’s length distance. “How can these things fit you? What? Do you not have an ass, or other things?”

“They fit me just fine. All of me.”

Why she even bothered with this line of questioning is beyond my comprehension.

This coming from a woman who wears the same bra, day in and day out, for years. This coming from a woman who only wears granny panties that ride up to a resting place under her boobs. This coming from a woman who wouldn’t know proper fitting undergarments if they grew in La Perla’s magical garden.

Why does she care what kinds of underwear I use? Shouldn’t she be happy that I’m wearing them?

I grab the underwear and walk out of the room. Next time I’ll make sure to hide my unmentionables so she won’t have to see what else I wear underneath my clothes.