The other day my mother stopped by and handed me a plastic food-store bag containing 50 pairs of women's underwear in various colors and styles, most of them having at least some leaning toward granny panties. She offered no explanation.
I considered the possibilities.
Mom had started buying irregular size clothing in bulk and selling them on eBay. The panties were an investment that didn’t pan out. This would not be a totally unlikely scenario, since my grandfather did things like that back before eBay, and once told me the worst purchase he ever made was 2,000 pairs of men’s khaki’s, size 24 waist and 36 length. I never did hear if ever managed to find 2,000 transgender supermodels.
Mom had been killing middle-aged women for years. Fearing the long arm of the law, she finally found the strength to dump the only evidence of her crimes, her beloved trophy-panties. Powerless to burn such precious mementos, she instead decided to hide them close, but still somewhere the detectives would never find them: my ass.
She had seen the strap of my thong tastelessly sticking out from my jeans one too many times, and had determined to overwhelm my underwear drawer with so many respectable panties that the thongs would be virtually impossible to find.
My father was a ladies man. Finding his stash of conquest collectibles, Mom passed them on to me in hopes that after the murder-suicide, I could piece together what happened, CSI-like.
My mother was a ladies man.
The health-food craze forced the local Girl Scouts to ditch cookies for recession-proof Girl Scout Panties. Mom’s standard Thin Mint order had been automatically filled with the new product.
Her love of shopping has taken a bizarre and unexpected turn, and next week she’ll be handing me a bag of 50 doorknobs.
She wanted to buy me underwear, and forgot she already bought them. . . 50 times.
She can be a little dizzy.
Mom bought me two pairs of underwear, but one was actually a boy. By the time she gave them to me, they had reproduced in the dim, surprisingly sexy light of the plastic bag. This would explain why some were in a younger style.
I’d been picking on mom for being short, when in fact, she is a wish-granting leprechaun.
I had actually been thinking I needed new underwear, and--poof!--50 pairs. Coincidence? Maybe…
She’d been using them, stretched between two poles, to shoot water balloons across the “crick” on which they live. Now that it is winter, she doesn’t need them any more. And the fraternity across the water is relieved.
She bought them years ago as ammunition for a Tom Jones concert. Sadly, she came down with chickenpox and missed the event.
She had a premonition I was going to be in an accident, and panicked thinking I wouldn’t have on clean underwear.
So as you can see, the possibilities are almost endless. I suppose I’m just going to have to ask her.
But I’m scared.