I hate g-strings. There, I said it.
I never knew such a statement was so controversial until some years ago when I worked at a marketing agency. I wore a stunning Zimmermann frock to the office one day which, for lack of a better term, was giving Amish-core. It was modest and quaint; a floor-length dress in a divine cotton-linen blend with long sleeves and a high neckline. It was white with tiny pink and green flowers dotted around the joint. I felt like Anne of Green Gables but yassified because the year was 2019 and not, like, 1897.
I was sashaying around the office without a care in the world, simply aching for the arrival of my client so I could work the boardroom.
That was until my manager screamed at me down the hall: “I CAN SEE YOUR KNICKERS!!!”
You see, I was wearing white undies for I could not find nude. A silly sartorial choice, sure, but when I got dressed there was no natural light to be seen and I didn’t know my knickers wanted front-row seats to the office.
The clock was ticking. My client — a kind man in his sixties who sold reticulation and loved nothing more than green, luscious grass — was arriving at the office in less than an hour, and it would’ve been a travesty of tragically unprofessional proportions if he were to see my underwears.
With my manager in tow, we high-tailed it to Target to acquire more appropriate undergarments. I made a bee-line for the nude briefs, but my manager stopped me.
“Babe, you need a g-banger,” she said.
I tried to fight it. “But they feel like I’ve got floss stuck in my ass,” I offered. “My cheeks and flaps gobble them up.”
However, she accepted none of that. She tried convincing me that everyone wears g-strings, and I was, in fact, in the minority for preferring a brief.
Like a parent buying their pubescent child their first bra, my manager told me it was time to grow up. I was becoming a woman and apparently, underwear of massive proportions does not a woman wear.
I begrudgingly bought a set consisting of two nude g-strings and scuttled into the toilet to do the ol’ switcheroo. From the moment I pulled the ludicrously small piece of fabric over my thighs and unto my hips, I was ready to commit state, federal and international crimes out of sheer anger and frustration.
I would say I have an average-sized ass — the cheeks protrude and there is curvature, but she’s not a fat bunda. Just a “does what it says on the tin” kinda butt. Yet the buns did not feel supported, nor secure in the g-banger. I genuinely, without a word of a lie, felt like these sheep — with every step I took, each cheek rhythmically jiggled. To this day, I’m surprised they didn’t audibly clap.
When it was time to meet with my dear, sweet client, it took all my willpower not to wriggle around like a frog stuck in a sock. I zoned out for the entire hour because every fibre of my being was going into remaining stationary.
At the risk of sounding like a Boomer or a reporter for Sky News, I just don’t understand the point of g-strings. People who say they mitigate the visible panty line are obviously unfamiliar with the world of seamless briefs, and anyone who thinks they’re comfortable clearly hasn’t worn one with jeans or stockings — things I have been forced to do after running out of clean, normal undies. The chaffing still haunts me to this day.
Sure, they’re sexy — but at what cost? Why must I sacrifice my labia’s happiness for a man who is probably, definitely, going to ghost me? Riddle me that.
I stand with Bridget Jones and the big knicker. May our cheeks be encased for the rest of our days.
Image credit: Universal Pictures / Bridget Jones’s Diary
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