But What If I Get Into An Accident?

Those wise words still echo in my head from gramma about clean underwear. I presume she thought my fifteen minutes of fame would coincide with some sort of horrible catastrophe in which I would be too incapacitated to tell the EMTs not remove my pants on national television. And believe me, I think about that when I haven't done laundry in two weeks and the dull white granny pants shoved into the corner of my lingerie drawer seem to be the only choice.
Now, it appears, there are other options. I personally have not been able to go commando for obvious reasons (see paragraph 1) unless it is an extremely extenuating circumstance (i.e., leaving boy's house and absolutely cannot find my goddamn thong.) This fabulous new invention seems to be the training wheels version of the full monty, the natural progression from the dental floss I usually sport; however, seeing as I haven't worn a maxi (or mini) pad since 1989, I'm not sure if I'll be their next customer/convert.