Not to put too fine a point on it, but Tim Gunn changed my life. While I’ve adored Tim’s hardworking, asexual, fretting-aunt aesthetic for years on “Project Runway,” it wasn’t until the debut some months back of “Guide to Style” that I accepted Tim Gunn into my heart as my personal lord and saviour.
And I know this because during a particular broadcast, I had a conversion experience, saw the light, threw money at the TV and then marched off to my closet and cast out EVERY LAST FASHION ASPERSION.
On the show, Tim first goes through a client’s closet and demands she designate each item as 1) keepable, 2) tailorable, 3) donatable and 4) trash. I was ruthless: by the time I’d finished — and factoring that I now have a post-babies body, a very different lifestyle from my former one as a working girl (though not that kind, usually), and apparently no longer believe cleavage is the window to the soul — I pared back about 2/3 of said closet’s clothes and shoes. TWO CHRIST-ON-A-STICK THIRDS.
Still, I’d postponed until today the most dreaded moment of the show: when Veronica Webb goes pilferin’ through ya panties. Because even more than the clothes, those unmentionables have history. Ex-boyfriends, ex-not-exactly-boyfriends, long afternoon naps, buns in the oven — those panties had stories to tell.
First, that it appears I used to Dress for Sexcess: buried under all the comfy cotton crap I’ve amassed in the past few years were THONGS — literally dozens upon dozens of ass-flossy variations, which collectively formed a bitch-slap-of-recognition that I used to wear a thong every day just because.
Second, that I needed to create a new categorization system for underthings disposal, something like 1) maternity, 2) period panties and 3) what in the FUCK was I thinking??!.
Let’s go to the evidence:
Seriously, was I blacked out when I paid American currency for these? Was I doing my part to fight the terrorists? Because not only do I not remember buying these (god help me) Fruit of the Loom monstrosities, but I am at least 30 years away from relying on my waistband to keep the tits outta the lap. Clearly I bought these on a day I was feeling all, “I’m 80, and I can kick!” (On the plus side: red. Sexytime!)
But contrasting the granny panties with a former-life frequent, a Cosabella thong, was SIMPLY DEPRESSING:
Now to be completely fair, these are both a size small, and while you can no doubt get a burka in a small I gotta cling to somethin’ here, because that picture is JUST SO WRONG.
Also, while I totes do not recall actually giving away dollars in exchange for that 100%-cotton chastity belt, I ALSO do not recall ever wearing it, and it does appear mercifully brand spankin’ new, and so Tim Gunn — in your honor, and in honor of my non-parental self that deeply gave a crap about intimates — those “look, these ladypants have a cupholder and a pocket for my colostomy bag!” are Goodwill-bound.
(And Tim, you’d be proud of me for casting out these atrocities, too, which in an episode of post-partum delirium I apparently looked at and thought, “Oooh, comfy! Free from hospital! Mmmm, so… non-skiddy! So BROWN!!”)
(And I can hear you, Tim, and you’re all, “Honey, did you take home the assless floral gown, too? I didn’t think so. Carry on.”)