[thong song]

an ode to shedding old stories, my writing teacher, and my new identity as a 'thong wearer'

*Doo doo doo doo doo doo-doo doo doo doo doo doo*

I startle awake from my very sound sleep and roll over to stop my alarm. It’s 7a, I have to be at my boss’ apartment on the Upper West Side in an hour-o yes, among my plethora of jobs, I am a personal assistant to a prominent art curator here in the city. Mercifully, this is one of my ‘later work’ mornings unlike my usual 6a wake ups to make it to the Upper East Side in time to teach 8a on Wednesdays and Fridays. Grateful for the extra bit of sleep I don’t hit snooze and instead will myself to peel the comforter off of my wet body. I say wet because there’s really no other way to describe it. No, I didn’t wet the bed but I’m no match for the night sweats that I’ve been experiencing as of late. As I fling the covers off of my sweaty body, careful not to wake Mike, I feel thankful for the faint kiss of cool air coming from the cracked open window (though I wish it were even cooler, and not quite so humid). I miss winter. Wow, never thought I’d say or think that. But it’s true my naturally warm, sweaty running needs the sweet relief of being balanced by the brisk freezing air that comes flying in like a laser and offsets these recurring night sweats. I think it’s hormone related; something is and has been out of whack there but I’ll be damned if I can get a straight answer on that and I don’t currently have the spoons to dive back into the world of women’s healthcare where “We don’t know” or “there hasn’t been enough research on that for us to investigate” are apparently sufficient answers to living with pain or discomfort. Not that I’ve recently had any doctor dismiss me (because I’ve actively sought out thoughtful, holistic women’s health specialists) but I don’t feel like going in and out of doctors offices again. Maybe in a couple of months but not right now. My psychiatrist suggests it might be a side effect of the Prozac, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up this new found equilibrium and liberation that little pill has given me SO, night sweats it is and will continue to be. But, anywho, I digress….

My feet hit the floor heavily and I weigh if I have enough time to shower before I have to go. I check my phone-7:05am. That’s a nope. One of my super powers, I must say, is that I can be out the door in fifteen minutes in the morning-sometimes ten if I’m really feeling feisty. From when my alarm sounds to when I’m out the door. I’m not exaggerating even a little bit. Maybe it’s from years of being woken up by my dad every morning for school who always trained us to set out our things the night before and didn’t really wait for you before leaving. Either you were ready to go or you weren’t and the car would be leaving with or without you. (This sounds way more intense than it actually is-I’m grateful for this skill now for things like: getting through airport security efficiently, knowing how to pivot gracefully in high stakes situations, and, like now, getting out the door half asleep in the morning.) I stumble to bathroom brush my teeth, peel off my soaked through Florence and the Machine t shirt (I’ve already gone through three sleeping shirts this week), I come back into the bedroom, lather my all natural charcoal deodorant on my armpits (this stuff is actually magic for my sweaty betty self), and I open the drawer to find a fresh pair of underwear only to discover that the only clean pair I have left (after a whirlwind week away) is a black lacy thong.

Now, you’re might be thinking, “Ummmm ok….what’s the problem?” Thanks so much for asking KATRINA (idk why your name is Katrina just go with me here) THE PROBLEM IS I DO NOT WEAR THONGS. In fact, I very proudly only a couple of days earlier was declaring to a friend that I have never and will never be a thong person because, and I quote, “it makes me feel like I have a perpetual wedgie and as someone who struggles with that feeling and suffers from wedgies a lot already I just can’t do it.” woo. Ok. Clearly some strong feelings here. I definitively decided a long time ago that I didn’t like to wear thongs. And by a long time ago I mean like college. Now, that’s totally cool! This is not about being right or wrong in choice of undergarment but FOR ME in this moment I needed to wear underwear (I’d considered commando but in jeans that just didn’t feel like the most comfy and exciting option) so I said “fuck it, I’ll suck it up til I can get home and change into my leggings (which I always go commando in).” I grab the underwear out of my drawer and throw them on. Throw the rest of my clothes on. Dab a little concealer under my eyes, swipe some mascara on my lashes, give Rox a pat, Mike a sleepy kiss, grab my keys and I am out the door.

Now most times on the train, first thing in the morning, I read to slowly wake myself up but other times, like today, I just go to sleep. Another super power of mine, train napping and never missing my stop (I better not effing jinx myself by writing this…) So I sleep. Briefly at various stops I peep my eyes open juuuuust enough to make out which stop I’m at and then go back to sleep. Forty five minutes later I arrive at my stop. I step off the train and have the impulse to sneakily reach towards my crotch to relieve a wedgie (because that’s usually when they come, after sitting down for a long while) only to discover, THERE IS NO WEDGIE. I am truly in shock. As I keep walking towards the turnstile in my very cool looking platform rubber clog shoes I think to myself “Oh my God. Am I a thong person now?...” When I tell you this revelation shook me to my core in my half asleep state on my emergence above ground to do very important book keeping adult things for my boss, I am being mild. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Have I been living in the made up beliefs and stories I’ve had about myself that have gone unexamined in a long time but that I continue to live with as a truth even though I consider myself to be a deeply self aware person sometimes even to a fault???

In this moment, something my writing teacher said on our phone call yesterday rings through my head:

“Where or from whom are these stories about yourself coming from?”

In this instance she is referring to the statements I’ve made in my writing class as of late where I apologized to the group for being a ‘rambler’ or not identifying myself as someone who ‘follows through’ even though, she points out, I’ve been following through. I have been writing everyday.

“I don’t perceive you in these ways,” she says to me and I believe her though I feel deeply seen in a way that also shook me to my core.

My neurodivergence has felt particularly on display in the way I write or work and for some reason, some very very old stories, voices, ideas of how the way I work is bad or wrong has come up to the surface as the loudest voice in the room.

“People often find this class at the right time for them,” she continues, “and I think you and I are similar in that we process and work differently and whatever is telling you that it’s bad or wrong just doesn’t seem true to me.”

Called OUT-more like in. But damn. It’s true. I have spent so much of my life repressing my own impulses, or thinking symptoms of my ADHD are bad or wrong and tried SO HARD to assimilate without even realizing that that’s what I was doing. And even when it has become clear in other areas it doesn’t mean I’ve healed this everywhere. But here, in this new space (writing class) where I feel most like myself but also incredibly vulnerable, it is coming in loud and clear. With this newfound perspective and awareness, I’ve really been trying to clock this. The moments where I feel freest, are when I do allow my brain to hop here, there and everywhere. And I don’t have to translate that to something palatable. The people I’m for will find me. Woah.

All of this to say. The thong of it all only further highlights the ways in which I’ve held onto old stories of being as truth in such big (the ADHD) and little (the thong) ways and thanks to being fresh out of my usual clean underwear and having a really insightful teacher, I have learned more about myself and just begun to shed some old stories and take another radical step towards true self embodiment and love.

I enter the art deco style building looking right over Central Park to my favorite door man (a hulking man with piercing blue eyes) giving me a fist bump with one hand and reaches into his pocket with the other to pull out some small treat or trinket for me; sometimes it’s a Dum Dum lollipop or a Hershey’s kiss, today, it’s a tootsie roll. Anywhere else, I’d avoid a man handing me candy like the plague. This city has taught me plenty about how to keep my guard up. But it’s especially taught me how to discern and in this instance, I’m safe. Grateful, even, to be a part of this tiny ritual. I step onto the elevator, greet the elevator man (yup, it’s one of those buildings) and will my ears to pop by swallowing as we rapidly ascend to the top floors of the building. Just before hitting my destination I make a mental note to go shopping for thongs as soon as possible.