Underpants - Pro or Con

This will not be a dissertation on the necessity of wearing some.  The Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohans of this world can duke that out.  Have at it, ladies.

No, we're going over to France.  Some time ago, I reviewed a sort of "how to be as cool as French women" book and learned that French women spend serious money on lacy bits of lingerie.  The premise was that while no one but her spouse or lover will ever see them, but knowing she could hop into bed, dressed for a successful seduction gives her confidence.   None of this "Mais non!" Or waving the EMTs away due to an unhappy choice while dressing that morning. 

No, what brought me two new underpants was a set of circumstances.  Back in November, my sister e'd me an exultant note about her new leopard-print vest.

I e'd back, asking if she had taken a job as a croupier or drinks girl at a Las Vegas hotel?

Indignantly, she said "No!" and proceeded to lecture me on how "hot" they were.

Undismayed, I e'd back that vests were tacky in the extreme and faux leopard was a major insult to leopards all over the world.  We both hissed off .

But by Christmas present shopping time, I'd figured out my retaliation and charged into Victoria's Secret for animal-print "Cheekies" as a rather pointed reminder that animal prints are only fit for underwear.  I found three pairs.  One had a lion's snarling head on the front; clearly something of a detriment to romance. 

At the cashier's desk I was informed that Cheekies were on sale; five for whatever amount of money.  Having exhausted their supply of animal prints, I bought the other two for myself. 
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I chose a pair in Day-Glo orange and another in Day Glo periwinkle blue.  Consisting mostly of elastic lace, both pairs would fit handily in that little envelope you get to RSVP a wedding invitation.

And they lingered in my underwear drawer until last Sunday when I donned the orange ones, after having some trouble figuring out the back from the front.  I was debuting new navy dress at Ports (O Call) and the champagne brunch. 

Walking out to the car to leave I did not feel particularly "confident."  In fact, rather the reverse because they were crawling up my body.  The urge to reach back and yank them down was almost irresistible, but I didn't.  But my first stop was the ladies room. 

By the time sufficient champagne had been imbibed I was impervious to them.  Cheekies all around!  and held my flute out for more. 

My sister never remarked on her new lingerie but I had to tell her that the leopard print bedroom slippers she'd sent me were too small.