From the subways of Tokyo to the airports of Athens, join our fashion and lifestyle columnist "No Style" in her quest to get some. Say "fashion victim no more," now, say it again. Ahhh. Doesn't that feel better? The antithesis to the traditional style column, this Ms. puts the capital S back in style...

Ms. No Style

The Importance of Earnestly Wearing Good Underwear

I am knickers-obsessed, almost reaching fetish proportions.

A true love for the undergarment, has made me a collector. I own a prodigious amount of underclothing in all forms: culottes, g-strings, briefs, boxer shorts, unmentionables in all fabrics of cotton, silk, velvet, velour, satin, lace, leather.

I love them all, so much so that a yearly birthday package from my mother contains several pairs of cheerful panties. My collection is such that years later, I am still appalled at my underwear selection on a fateful Valentine’s Day. One of those mother-happy pants caused quite the contretemps, bringing a promising liaison crashing.

I had been having a subway flirtation for some time with a striking man who got off every morning at my station. Smiles had led to hesitant conversations and a few giggles. I had grown suspicious that he had come to time his commute to coincide with mine. I could feel that he was soon ready to pop the big date question.

On that morning, I put on a pair of mother-panties to bring me good luck – superstition winning over style. I had worked late into the night at home putting finishing touches on an important proposal we were presenting to a client first thing in the morning. I proudly carried the only copy with me in my new attaché case.

I met the potential on the subway as hoped. Yes! He was in full flirtation mode. How romantic to be asked out on Valentine’s Day. It put a certain spring in my step, and a twinkle in my eye. As we exited the station and made our way onto the sidewalk, just as he started with a predictable 'I was wondering if…", and I nodded and stared right into his eyes to show interest, we walked onto the biggest goddamned vent imaginable.

A typhoon-force wind came up. My attaché was wrenched out of my hands, sending the pages of my proposal flapping in the wind. At that same moment, in one fell swoop, my wraparound skirt came flying up, spread wide, wide open, and glued itself around my waist.

Exposed were, under sheer nylons, a pair of underwear that even a seasoned lover would be discouraged to witness: middleaged-shaped with big yellow happy faces. As I stood frozen, my shame exposed for all on the sidewalk to see – I could swear I heard catcalls and one whistle though I was too panicked to say for sure -- the dilemma came hard and fast: save my job or my modesty.

A more savvy girl may have chosen differently, after all, there’s always another job out there. When I finished collecting the pages, aided by an old woman who looked appalled at my state of public exposure and kept shaking her head, he was gone. Forever. His commute never to coincide with mine again.

Contact Ms. No Style at 5a7@avivalasvegas.com. Make sure to put Ms. No Style in the subject line.

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