Going panty-less in my usual yoga duds ($6 cotton leggings) would be ill-advised, since they’re super-thin and would provide way too much information to anyone in the vicinity of my downward dog. So, the folks at Dear Kate — the ones who make those high-performance sports skivvies — hooked me up with a pair of their new yoga pants, which are designed to let you ditch the drawers and (as their hashtag insists) #gocommando. The brainchild of former chemical engineering student Julie Sygiel, these pants are fancy and breathable and wicking and chemical-free and anti-pill and high-tech and supposedly you’ll never want to wear undies again. Plus, they’re guaranteed to be “anti-cameltoe,” with an extra-thick, absorbent crotch lining that my crappy (but comfy) standbys are certainly lacking.
I tried the Dear Kates out and they checked all the boxes: fit, stretch, cuteness, high enough waist to avoid plumber’s crack...all the important stuff. They held up through yoga, running, and biking — my great trifecta of I’m-too-cheap-to-buy-a-gym-membership workouts. The pants may have even gotten more comfortable after a couple of spins in the wash. But, overall, I was not enjoying my commando adventures. To be clear, it wasn't the leggings that were the problem; it was the underwear, or rather, the lack thereof.
Having never actually parted ways with my panties for reasons other than showering, swimming, and sex, I had no idea how much I would miss them. They’re cotton, for one thing, and to me that makes them more comfy than any high-tech fiber. (I don’t sweat a ton, so getting weighed down by wet cotton isn’t a huge concern.) Plus, I’m lazy, and was used to doing a 30-minute, at-home yoga practice for, say, three days in a row without washing my yoga pants — NOT an option when you’re going commando, for obvious reasons.
My end-of-experiment verdict is that my panties belong in certain locations only: on my body; in the hamper/washer/dryer; tossed on the floor in a fit of passion; or in the delightful, cottony, clean-smelling pile that is my underwear drawer — to which I calmly but quickly returned. I put my panties on, I pulled my Dear Kates on top, and all was well.
So, I may have missed the point of the #gocommando pants — but, I’m still wearing them, undies and all. The big three advertised reasons for going commando to work out are getting rid of chafing, bunching, and the (apparently) dreaded VPL. I guess I never actually felt “victim” to any of those. Sure, people can probably detect a boy-shorts silhouette under my old yoga pants when I’m getting all bendy, but I’m not actually that bothered by strangers knowing I have underwear on. Evidently, since I just told all of the Internet.