Today was a normal summer day. I woke up, started to get ready for work, and fished out a work-appropriate dress from the wardrobe. When I say ‘work-appropriate’, I mean something that I don’t have to self-consciously tug at every 30 seconds like it’s shrivelling up. Fidgeting about in an attempt to maintain full intimate area coverage at all times isn’t befitting of a professional. (That’s what I try and tell myself, anyway.)
The dress looked fine. I made a few swishes about in front of the mirror to check for creases. And then I saw it. VPL. Argh. Cue that ‘dun dun DUNN’ sound effect you hear on TV all the time.
With no time to change, I attempted to cover my helpfully-outlined bum with a nice jacket. I then spent the day at work trying to remain seated for as long as possible. All trips to the kitchen or toilet were made as I unsubtly pretended to smooth out some unseen wrinkle at my lower lower back. There is, sadly, only so much you can rub your own arse while traversing a staircase without a bystander finding it a bit odd.
The curse of the dreaded Visible Panty Line knows no borders, except the ones now clearly visible through your clothes. It doesn’t discriminate between those who prefer ‘girly boxers’ (I hate that phrase) and those who like to keep it simple and stick with briefs. Even the minimalist thong can’t escape the horror of being caught in the wrong kind of light and a flimsy fabric.
I think that as proper Brits we should all be calling VPL the Visible Pants Line anyway, to try and take some of the stigma away from it. The no-nonsense sound of ‘pants’ lends a sort of seriousness to the condition. Can anyone say ‘panty’ without giggling? That’s part of the problem. Tee hee hee, panties. Woo. Maybe we should all go back to bloomers, unless that sounds too much like we’re shuffling around with concealed bakery products.
The one reassurance of having prominent VPL is that it sends out a clear signal to those around you. That signal being “Why yes, I am totally wearing pants today. Big girl pants, like a proper adult. What of it?” There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that you’re equipped with undergarments. And when people hiss, try to subtly point and whisper “Hey, I can see your pants!”, what kind of reaction are they looking for anyway? Would they rather we all go commando for the sake of an uninterrupted silhouette?
As I squished my posterior onto an office chair and tried not to look conspicuous, I thought I’d nailed it. At least, until someone pointed out that they could see my bra…
