i buy my underwear for me

i do not know how to spell underwear correctly. despite how many times the red squiggle appears under my spelling, i still think it makes more sense spelled "underware." not sure why i want to spell it that way, but i do. every. time.

anyways, lately i’ve found myself surrounded by the topic of sexuality. people can’t stop talking about miley, moms are slut shaming their daughters, and victoria’s secret keeps sending me free undie coupons. not only that, but i also now live with four other girls i’ve never met before. we have a lot of past life to fill each other in on, and that includes underwear: favorite style, favorite color, ect.

so when one of my roommates was completely appalled at my favorite pair of underwear, i started thinking… who do i buy my underwear for, if not for me?

i know that a lot of people, including myself (in many situations), like to be told what to buy. “women are the number one consumer market,” blah, blah blah. “women tell the men what to buy, so we tell the women what to buy,” blah, blah, blah.

i like full-coverage undies. the more cotton, the better. i don’t understand the fascination that surrounds string underwear.

butt wedgies are the worst, and i won’t even get started on what happens in the front. the best way to combat this is cover it all.

the man repeller wrote about some of her underwear tendencies in her book. she nearly wore her period underwear on her wedding day. her period underwear is full coverage and black.

in GIRLS, ray goes through hannah’s underwear drawer and finds a pair of underwear he thought was crotch-less and really turned out to be full of holes. at first, he seemed intrigued… but then he was grossed out.

in 10 things i hate about you, cameron and bianca go through kat’s underwear drawer and find a black pair of bikini briefs. bianca is intrigued because she says it means her sister wants to have sex one day.

so if black underwear in the 90s was a sign of sex, and black underwear in the late 2000s is reserved for periods… was does this mean now?

i have a lot of old underwear from my victoria’s secret pink days. cute little things with cheeky sayings like “extra credit” and “kiss me.” things i wouldn’t pay $1 for now, let alone $5 at the time. now the underwear i intentionally buy is either nude or black. not because it’s risqué or sexy… so i can throw it all in the wash together and not worry about color mixing or bleeding.

does my underwear say “practical” individually, or just as a collection?

in terms of underwear, have i died before i’m even dead?

disclaimer: this post was originally started in october 2013, which is why living with four girls is referenced. now i only live with one. yay, me.

hbd + happy anniversary

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIL HYDRANCHULA

the hydranchula is one year old today. while she has gone through some name and aesthetic changes in the last 12 months, she has turned into the hydranchula i always hoped she would be.

thank you so much to anyone who reads and has encouraged me to keep writing. without your support, i’m not sure i would keep writing this blog. i appreciate you more than i could ever say or write down in this blog.

i want to give special thanks to some special people: to my mom for birthing me and telling me i’m awesome even when i’m being a terror, to the girlfriends who are more of anti-girlfriends, kaily and alyssa, who would i be without you two? and the girlfriends i never expected: lara and morgan, thank you for teaching me to hug and to sing, and thank you to will for being someone who gets me.

sorry for the hiatus; i’m back.

~*~

in the middle of the summer, i found myself single for one whole year.

the last time i was single for longer than one year, i was 14 years old.

in a year of singlehood, i’ve figured out a lot of shit about my life and life in general.

here it is:

breaking up with someone you love sucks. breaking up with someone you love because you know it will be better for your individual lives sucks even more.

there is a moment in your post-breakup life where you realize you’re really not getting back together. it wasn’t a fluke. you said the words, he accepted them, it’s been a few weeks, and you’re still not talking.

there is another moment when you realize that you’re really done. once you’ve realized you’re not getting back together, this moment comes. you’ll never get married, you’ll never have kids together, you’ll never get the dog you’ve already named.

those moments are really difficult to swallow. regardless of the relationship’s length. it’s not just the person you fall in love with. you fall in love with route it takes to get from your door to theirs, whether it takes 45 minutes or three hours. you love his mom and his dog and knowing which drawer in his kitchen the spoons live in.

a really terrible moment is when you realize that you probably shouldn’t see each other anymore. and you probably shouldn’t sleep together anymore, either… because you broke up.

a terrible but exciting moment is the day that you decide to start sleeping with other people. an equally terrible but humbling moment is the day you decide he could start sleeping with other people, and your knowledge of this doesn’t bother you.

this moment is also kind of happy because it means he is moving on, and you know how difficult that is, so you’re happy for him because being broken up sucks.

there is this moment when you realize how great it is to be by yourself. and there is another one shortly after that when you realize how great it is to be you.

there’s a moment when you realize how great it is to focus your energy on having relationships with women. i have never had more female friends in my entire life than i do right now. while this frightens me, i have never felt more uplifted, empowered or loved by others than i do now.

at some point, i realized how lucky i was to have freedom to do anything that i wanted. i kind of hate saying this, because it means that being in a relationship is the opposite of freedom to do whatever you want. i don’t think that is always the case, but being in a relationship means losing some of my selfishness. being in a relationship means that i choose to put someone else before me in some cases.

being single for a year has allowed me to do a really wonderful thing: start this blog. the hydranchula is my like one of my best girlfriends. she’s given me the confidence to write about things that i might have otherwise deemed too personal or private. she is one of my new favorite things about myself.

and there is no better feeling than finding your voice.

better to be lucky than good

i’m a momma’s girl. this is obvious to anyone who knows me, even slightly. i admire my mom for being the best person i know. she is a strong, smart woman, and i love her.

but something that i often fail to acknowledge is that there is something else to my momma. my momma is my best friend, but i am not hers. and i could not be happier about that.

because my daddy is my momma’s best friend.

my momma brings my dad and i together. she is the link that holds us together, because, until about two years ago, the two of us could have slipped away from each other without much effort. while this is extremely unpleasant, embarrassing and unflattering to think about, let alone put in writing… it’s true.

my daddy is a traveler. he was gone a lot when i was growing up, and sometimes it was difficult to adjust to his coming and going. he was home for lots of the important stuff. he was also gone for lots of the unimportant stuff that didn’t show up in pictures, but showed up in things like new freckles or scars.

so we fought because we didn’t know how to talk. about dishes, messy rooms, homework, taking care of the dog. anything there was to fight about, we did. with passion.

and i never understood why he didn’t get me. why i didn’t get him.

my brother said things would change when i moved to college. “something will click,” he said. “and you will get each other.”

i wouldn’t say it was a “click.” there was no “a-ha” moment, but things. little things that have ended up being some of my favorite things about my relationship with my dad.

there was the ruined, un-refundable prom dress that he replaced with one that cost nearly three times as much.

there was the move from michigan state to home to grcc to columbia, and all of the financial tuition changes he has yet to complain about.

“dad, do you want to watch a movie?” “yeah, what do you want to watch?” “batman.” “okay.” (repeat 1-3x per month or visit home (whichever comes first) in the last three years)

all the fleetwood mac roadtrips.

pounds of blue gill for dinner.

it was these, and so many other, little things… these things that made me realize that i may be a momma’s girl, but i am my dad’s daughter.

independent. almost always to a fault.

smart as a whip. it’s the kidneys.

can’t whistle worth shit.

funny (mostly to self, sometimes to others)

kind.

unlikely to acknowledge personal accomplishments.

passionate, sometimes to a fault.

loyal.

strong work ethic.

the older i get, the more i appreciate the things we share. the less i compare our relationship to other father-daughter relationships or the relationship he shares with my mom, the more i appreciate him. all of the oil changes, all of the phone calls, all of the times he’s saved me.

happy as i am that our relationship is stronger than it has ever been, i am even happier that his relationship with my momma is, too.

how lucky we are to love and be loved by each other.