I’m stressed out about underwear. To be specific, I’m stressed out about the color of my underwear. And not just any underwear, my New Year’s Eve underwear.
It’s a Latin New Year’s tradition — or superstition, depending on how you think of it — to match the color of your skivvies to the thing you desire in the coming year. Yellow for prosperity, white for happiness, blue for wellbeing and so forth. Since I began observing this tradition, I’ve always chosen new red or pink dainties to bring love and/or passion to my life.
The one year I wore a bright red bra and panty set, within months I’d begun a passionate love affair. Now I’m convinced that there is power in the red panties and have chosen to wear the shade again for my New Year’s underwear. Which brings me to my predicament.
My money is a little funny right now (which probably means I should focus on yellow knickers) and I hadn’t planned for any new clothes for another month. Least of all a set of New Year’s underwear that, according to my past behavior, will only be worn once. I wondered if I could recycle the good karma from the red set that I already had, but one of my Latin girlfriends assured me that they must always be new and that she would spot me a bikini. Very nice of her, but I declined.
Now, I’m stressed out about finding a set of red underthings in my size and at my price point before Thursday. I believe that my chances for love in the new year will be summarily thwarted if I don’t accomplish this quest successfully. And that stresses me out for many reasons, not the least of which is the guy I’m seeing with whom I’d like to kick things up a notch.
You might be thinking, hey this is a superstition, why take it so seriously? In my bipolar mind, it’s not really about underwear but rather about setting my choices for the coming year. I worry a lot about choices, mostly because I can’t make them very well when I’m becoming depressed. I also worry a lot about making the wrong choice and ruining my life. That’s a factor in my bipolar too, catastrophizing little molehills into insurmountable mountains. Like when I think that not being able to get the right underwear will ruin my chances at love forever, therefore finding it must become the most important thing I will do this week.
Looking forward into the future is likely a difficult proposition for everyone, but more so for those of us with a mental illness. What could be something fun like New Year’s Eve could turn into a needlessly stressful obsession over the right color brassiere. I know I’ve spent too much time over the last few days thinking about New Year’s Eve superstitions. I should probably spend my last few moments of this year planning how to be a more prolific writer or how to keep my bipolar in better control. And I will do those things. It’s just that if I do them on December 31, I’ll be wearing red underwear.
Tracey Lloyd lives in Harlem, where she fights her cat for access to the keyboard. You can find more of her experiences living with bipolar disorder on her personal blog, My Polar Opposite.
