When WWII ended, in one of our grandparents' birthplace -- a spartan, battered mountain village in the Very Old World (now a ski resort) -- international help arrived in the form of powdered milk, chocolate, clothes, and other necessities. The children loved the chocolate, and our then-child grandparent (now a well-to-do retiree) still raves about it. The women of the village, on the other hand, were mesmerized by the clothes. Those beautiful garments had arrived, camisoles and 'combinaisons' in sleek fabrics and wonderful colors (donated by rich bourgeoisie from the city, who the black market had gracefully seen through the hard times). The tough village women were not immune to beauty. They had had a tough life, alright, but that doesn't mean that they did not produce marvelous embroidery or that they did not like to dress up on Sunday for church. The war was over! The women fought over the shiny underwear like the children over the chocolate – and made sure to show off every Sunday, wearing them above their normal clothes.
Superman has a similar approach to underwear.
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Call us happily married, but we prefer to show our underwear to each other only. If you must show yours in public, as long as we don't have to put up with your crack, your vast derri`ere, your Hairy Monster, and/or naked flesh of butchershop-display texture, we will keep an open mind. In any case, you may end up immortalized in your grandchildren's blog.
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Have a lovely weekend, our dear readers, and don't forget to air yourselves sufficiently. We won't be blogging, as usual.
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