Why I’m Still Holding onto My High School Underwear

The cloth comrades I mistook for my source of empowerment

Photo by penki .ir on Unsplash

I opened the door to find a vacant restroom with every stall door ajar. I chose the one closest to the sinks, remembering a statistic I’d read years ago noting that the first and last stalls were the least frequently used. I looked in the toilet bowl to see remnants proving otherwise, but at least no “raindrops” sat on the surface of the lid.

I pulled down my pants, admiring my newly purchased pair of underwear, forest green silk that made my skin feel as luxurious as the fabric itself. I was proud of myself for finally upgrading my worn-in collection that still included thongs, bikinis, and boyshort-cut underthings dating back to my early high school days, which were now well over a decade ago.

When I was making my list of goals in January for the new year, my friend and I compared notes. Without knowing what existed inside my dresser drawers, she sternly stated, “This is the year we get rid of old underwear.”

My jaw dropped. How could she possibly know I, too, had been holding onto my favorites that were now sporting holes and tears from overuse and repetitive wear?

A melancholy feeling of nostalgia overcame me. Of course, my best friend and I had this in common. We’d found solace in our friendship that began around the same time our childhood bedroom mirrors reflected our freshly purchased teenage undies. We had experienced the cadence of pivotal coming-of-age moments alongside each other, and I found comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone in the struggle of letting go of something that once felt like this fresh pair of silky delicacies I was now wearing. Our high school underwear supported us in silence, which was how our friendship worked sometimes, too. Later that day when I was putting laundry away, I held onto each old pair for a moment before putting them in a pile on top of the dresser rather than in it.

A pair of indigo blue cheeksters (a Victoria Secret PINK style) that formerly had a repeated pattern of white skulls now sported a waistband with rips on either side on the back, almost like makeshift lingerie with a high-cut, thong-like “V” forming. Another pair was a perfect shade of mint green dotted with pinky-red roses and lace trim. Gray boyshorts with red and blue zig zags, sherbet orange stripes cinched in the front with a perfect tiny bow, and a bright green pair with cameras printed on them with the phrase “take a picture, it’ll last longer” and black lace detailing all sat in a sad heap, separated from their usual girl gang of underpants. They were cloth comrades who got me through periods, gave me an extra boost of self-assurance that no one else would see, and helped me love my body more. But, as someone who desperately aims to live in the present, what does holding onto something from the distant past say about me—and not just clinging to any old souvenir, but essentially gross, useless, decaying fabrics that no longer support my hope-filled future of womanly dreams?

Yet, as I held them, I saw them as remnants of concealed confidence that reminded me I could shine bright while remaining inconspicuous. Case in point: I was terrified my senior year of high school, knowing I’d signed up for a speech class that would give me enough credits to not have to repeat a similar humiliating course in college. My teacher was kind enough to let us choose if we wanted the class to put their heads down or turn backward in their chairs to ease us into what some of us considered our greatest fear as adolescents. As I stood up in front of the entire class, I didn’t have them close their eyes, but thought about the age-old lore of imagining them all in their underwear. Oddly enough, I found peace in the cotton-bred confidant hugging my cheeks, helping me stand tall while I used my voice for five incredibly long minutes of class.

Another time during these trivial years, a popular boy who I thought I was somewhat cool with called me “Double-A” as I passed by his desk, referring to my chest that hadn’t yet developed. Puberty is a damn awful time with no grace from peers. My heart sped up and my throat got tight, restricting my breath until I found my seat. As I let air fill my lungs, I rubbed my hands along the sides of my jeans to self-soothe, remembering that I was wearing underwear with lace that day. If only he knew just how attractive I was, he would have never said that to me. Even though I was young, awkward, and clumsy most of the time, I had opened the door to seeing myself as more than just a girl, but instead a secretly sexy teenager.

Tanning beds were another way to take control of how I presented myself to the world (PSA: I don’t recommend these now, as I’ve had a mole removed from overexposure, and they’re just not safe). I walked into the salon multiple days a week sporting a deep gray thong covered in pastel flowers and two little black bows, the only garment I wore so I could see just how tan I was getting. As I undressed in the room, I glanced at myself in the mirror before putting on my goggles and starting the tanning session. I admired my body, the freckles and moles, curves, and how wearing fun underwear made me feel even more powerful—that it somehow accentuated my physique.

Standing in the house I now own with award-winning photos, published articles, and degrees on the walls, I looked again at my freshly laundered memories. I appreciated each of their glory days as I folded them and placed them in the back of my closet. I was slowly moving on, replacing the old with the new, but still unable to fully let go of such comforting cloths. Getting to choose my underwear rather than my mom buying me a pack as a young girl was liberating, and releasing those early days of independence was hard. As an adult, it gets easier to use my voice, stand up for myself, and exude the confidence I no longer need underwear to provide, but on hard days where I fall short, my teenage favorites hold me, like a child being consoled by a parent when the world is too heavy. I was starting to realize this was an unhealthy (and probably unsanitary) crutch and falsity I need not rely on. Working to move forward, I spent close to half an hour at an intimates store picking out seven new pairs in gorgeous shades, cuts, and levels of softness.

Now, as I sit here donning a new modal-blend pair of periwinkle ribbed bikini cut undies, I wonder why I didn’t upgrade my drawers sooner. I’m grateful that I still find just as much joy in how theses fabrics simultaneously empower and comfort me while refusing to accept that I can’t be influential and bold even without them.

Natalie Bickel is an energetic storyteller who moves people to action with her words. She has a bachelor's in communications with published articles in the Los Angeles Times, Glamour, Darling Magazine, and more. She’s also the author of the YA novel, The Catalyst, and the children’s books, The Christmas Clue and The Volcano No One Could See.

Instagram: @natmosfear

Website: natmosfear.com