A story about underwear

This guest post brought to you by Allie at Allie's Answers.

When I wrote the Better By 40 guest post for The Modern Gal a few months ago, I hinted to an incident involving underwear and my thirtieth birthday. Manager Mom commented that she'd like to hear about the underwear incident, so I thought I'd share an old blog post with you (from a now defunct blog). I wrote this on my thirtieth birthday. I'm thirty-one now, and I don't tend to go commando, so it all worked out int he end.

Today is the thirtieth anniversary of my arrival on Earth. I prefer to believe that I just materialized suddenly out of nothing, or sand, or drops of water, or sheer will, and I prefer that you believe I did too.

My dear friend, Bill, sent me a birthday card which suggested that turning thirty might cause me to freak out. This card selection was possibly inspired by the fact that I've been complaining about turning thirty for at least the last six months, if not the past six years.

I don't feel thirty. I feel sixteen. During a trip to an ear, nose and throat specialist last year, the medical assistant thought I was sixteen.

She asked if my health insurance was in my father's name (a ridiculous question, since as we already established, I materialized out of thin air). When I told her it was in my husband's name, she yelled, "Oh, my god!" She looked at the computer and back at me, shaking her head, saying, "You're almost thirty! I thought you were in high school. I thought you were some kind of child-bride." She promptly paraded me in front of her co-workers. "You see this girl, she's thirty."

I wasn't. I was twenty-nine and one month. Today, though, I am, indeed, thirty, and I have spent a good portion of my materialization day plotting my freakout. It is as follows:

I am throwing out my underwear.

Don't panic. Not all of it. You won't catch me flashing my girl parts in public like a pop tart. I simply realized that I still have underwear from way back when I was in high school. I have underwear from when I was fifteen, which means I have fifteen year-old underwear, which means I have underwear that I have owned for half my life, and it is time for us to part ways.

They were A-team, they moved to B-team, and they are probably far past G-team now. I only wear them if I haven't done laundry in weeks and weeks, and even then I question if it's all that much better than going commando. They are taking up space in my drawer and they don't pay me rent. They must go.

So this is my freak out. It is much more tame than my freakouts in days of yore when I did insane things like move to New Jersey. But I am thirty now, and I need to make an attempt at being a little more dignified.

If anyone knows where to get grown up-sized Wonder Woman Underoos, let me know. I'm going to need to replenish my wardrobe.