Ode to underwear
By Tracy RossI’m poised in front of the fulllength mirror in the loft of my tiny cabin in Talkeetna, Alaska, naked from the waist up. It’s 1995. I’m 25 years old. And this half-nude moment on the edge of the wild is a classic coming of age.
Dangling from the bottom of my body are the remains of the first pair of Patagonia underwear I ever owned. The knees are blown out, the inner thighs are shredded, and two full moons of faded, fetid fabric fill the mirror as I pirouette to the rear.
Oh sad, sad day. Oh somber mood of winter. Oh, for the end of an era. As I make another pass in front of the cracked mirror, I realize that the time has come to take these skivvies to their final resting place.
I don’t know when or how it happened because they’d been with me – on me – forever, and we’d gone through so much together: pounding single track, evading grizzlies, rambling through rain forests, and driving dogs while the aurora pulsed a disco groove across the northern sky.
It nearly broke my heart to realize that those things close to you die. And so it was with my underwear. Dirt poor in the dead of winter, I had not only lost a dear friend, but now I had nothing but cotton to layer beneath my bibs.
So I did what any sensible 25- year-old woman would do: I wrote a eulogy, stuffed it in a manila envelope with the shreds of Capilene, and sent it to Patagonia headquarters, somewhere in California.
The letter went something like this:
Dear Patagonia:
Inside this envelope you’ll find my underwear. I send them to you not knowing where else to turn. I only hope you can reincarnate them into a pop-bottle fleece. As you can see, I have worn them fiercely, reduced them to shreds, reused them as an oil rag and recycled them summer, winter, spring and fall.
They’ve been sitting in this manila envelope for over a week, halfway between the trash can and the post office, cluttering the rough-sawn log I use as bench, cutting board, bookshelf, and boot rack. We’ve been through so much together, it’s hard to imagine saying goodbye. But I must find closure. To heal. To move forward. To seek out the next adventure.
Before I do, if I could have a few words …
Oh underwear, how can I ever express the love I feel for you? I know I’ve dragged you through the mud, snagged you on slivers and raked you over the coals. I know I sat on you your entire life. I’m sure you’ve often felt smothered. Maybe I could have eaten more Beano and a few less refried beans. I supposed I could have hand washed you more than I did. And those hours spent staring at my butt, they must have been living hell. But, for what it’s worth, you are the most steadfast friend I’ve ever known. You really covered my ass. And for that, I will never forget you.
Wherever you’re going, don’t forget the good times. Like beach cruising in the early Pacific chill on the Baja in December. Or mountain biking the misty woods of Scotland in search of sacred stone circles. Or what about Fairbanks at 40 below? Driving dogs on the Iditarod trail? And don’t forget all those nights in the sleeping bag when it was just you, me, a few yards of Primaloft and the endless Alaskan wild. Sure it was often sweaty, and you really took some shit. But don’t forget the good times. I’m almost through, I promise, but it’s just so hard to let go. How do you replace the memories? How can you trust that you’ll find another pair of underwear willing to go the extra mile? Sure I’ve had to layer more diligently of late, and there have been awkward moments when I forgot how tattered you’d become. But those moons were fun, and I don’t know that I’ll ever find a john as long on love, as dedicated to pursuit of my happiness, and as accepting of my darker side as you.
Well, I guess it’s time to say goodbye. Please take good care of this rag. Please find a suitable end. And please, if you think there’s any way you can help ease the pain of my loss, don’t hesitate to send me another pair. I couldn’t bear the thought of wearing any other brand so close to my behind.
Sincerely,
Tracy Ross
Ross is an associate editor at Skiing Magazine but makes up for it by living in a tiny cabin in Nederland, Colorado.
