Let’s try something different, shall we?
Specifically: underwear. And wearing it outside. Like, in public. On purpose. The kind of move that taps into your inner diva-slash-goddess-slash-teenage fever dream—aka the version of yourself that thinks performing I’m a Slave 4 U at the VMAs with a python around your neck sounds like a completely reasonable career pivot.
It's not about being scandalous. It’s about being... unbothered.
And maybe a little wild, but in a powerful way.
I recognized my age (young) recently when someone asked if I liked a certain pop star, and I had no idea who they were talking about. They gave me a look—somewhere between confusion and mild concern—and I suddenly realized the entire pop landscape had been refreshed while I wasn’t paying attention.
Like a software update I forgot to approve. Last I checked, it was Taylor and Beyoncé, and now it’s a roster of names I barely recognize and probably can’t spell correctly.
The Duas, (who we all know I love—call me, Dua <3),
the Tates,
the Charlis, (do we always have to say “XCX,” or is it implied?),
the Sabrinas,
and now the Addisons.
They’re young, hot (obvi), and somehow capturing the headspace of both teenage girls and women who own at least one retinol serum. And as any good pop star does, they’re doing it all in what looks like very expensive underwear.
After a minor spiral wondering if I’d completely lost touch with the world, I fell down the rabbit hole and refreshed my Spotify. Which brought me to the big question:
What is it about a new pop star that gets us so hooked?
Is it actually the music? The killer choreography?
Or is it because, somewhere deep in our peanut-butter-core, we secretly wish we had the nerve to stop caring about our stomachs and just flip our hair on stage—basically naked, doing HIIT, and power-singing like our rent depends on it?
Or maybe it’s that quietly confident sexuality.
The kind that doesn’t ask for approval. The kind you’re fully prepared to roll your eyes at—but somehow, instead, you find yourself giving it a standing ovation. It’s completely itself. And weirdly, it makes you want to be the same.
Which brings me back to Addison Rae (who, apparently is dropping the Rae).
And the fact that I can’t stop watching her videos.
There, I said it. Happy?
It all started as a casual scroll—the way you might flirt with cottage cheese pancakes or capris, just to see—and now I’m fully invested, singing Diet Pepsi in the car with the windows rolled down. It’s been the re-brand of the century. From the girl who taught me how to do the WAP dance back in 2020 to the one who might become our new Britney, the one we’ve been cosmically manifesting. Pre-meltdown, pre-umbrella.
Is it nostalgia?
Is it performance art?
Is it her no-makeup makeup press tour?
Is it just algorithmic hypnosis?
Unclear. But I’m following.
And in the landscape of le pop, Charli fits the archetype of the provocateur—pairing a chain with a satin bra and making it feel less like a fashion choice and more like a cultural directive.
Addison, by contrast, offers a different kind of mass appeal. Bright, magnetic, relentlessly likable. I haven’t met her, but I’d bet money she texts back with an average of five to ten emojis and apologizes when you bump into her.
She’s dancing like her life depends on it—and maybe, in a way, it does. In the business of stardom, performance is currency and charisma keeps the lights on. And somehow, between the hair flips and the breathless, full-body commitment, she makes it look fun. Like we’re all just a few shoulder rolls away from self-actualization.
And that kind of energy? It’s influential. It lingers.
It makes you reconsider the slouch, the safe choices, the habit of wearing out your favorite Calvin Kleins. Suddenly, you’re standing taller, dressing with purpose, and reaching for the undergarments that make you feel alive—because, yes, apparently, your underwear can do that.
Which brings me to—yes—panties.
If watching these girls has taught me anything it’s that pop-star energy isn’t just reserved for the stage. It’s also for the gas station. The post-office. Your kitchen.
Your underwear drawer.
The first time I went shopping for underwear, it was at Limited Too—a store that sold mesh pencil cases, glitter gel pens, and cotton undies for preteens. There was an entire wall of what I knew as “training bras” that felt vaguely illegal to look at, like I was seeing something I wasn't supposed to understand yet.
What was going in those cups? My mosquito bites? Later that day, I’d retreat to the basement, fire up my pink karaoke machine, and perform I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman into the mic—fully convinced no one upstairs could hear me.
Eventually, puberty arrived, and those mosquito bites blossomed into AA’s (which, if you asked me then were huge and amazing). That’s when I graduated to the glowing pink temple at the mall known as Victoria’s Secret.
Walking in felt like stepping into a world reserved for the “older girls”—the ones who wore Love Spell perfume, frosted lip gloss, and knew exactly what a thong did.
I had no business being there, but there I was, barely a B cup, clutching a “Very Sexy Bombshell Push-Up Bra” that promised to add two cups and enough stuffing to double as a flotation device.
Since then, I’ve transitioned into what I’d call the “functional underwear years.”
You could call it boring. You could call it aging out of delusion.
All I know is, I’m no longer putting on a push-up bra to run out for errands. And if you are, I assume you live by the rule that if you’re ever found unconscious on the street, your lingerie better tell a good story. Which, I admire. Deeply.
But that’s not where I am right now.
I’m in my “95% cotton, no wire, no problem” era.
Nevertheless, I like nice things. And while I may be in my no-wire, soft-waistband era, I still love having a few timeless, actually beautiful intimates tucked away for when the mood strikes. Not in a “saving it for a special occasion” way—more like, sometimes Tuesday just calls for silk. Or lace. Or something with a bow that does absolutely nothing except remind me I own perfume that’s rarely seen in public.
These aren’t everyday pieces.
They’re secret weapons.
Mood enhancers.
Micro-movements in the fight against sensible underwear.
So here I am, wearing cotton when I want, silk when I need, and sometimes a little of both when it’s Tuesday and the universe demands it. And no, it doesn’t always make sense. But maybe that’s the point. Intimates, much like the pop stars we obsess over, have the power to make us feel things. Things like confidence, joy, and the sudden urge to flip your hair for no reason whatsoever while reaching for overpriced strawberries at Erewhon.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s why they’re worth the investment.
If Addison can rise from TikTok choreography to Diet Pepsi with Lana, surely we can manage a lace brief and a little eye contact.
Consider it a tribute.
To Britney.
To performance.
To feeling a little wild—in a good way.
Your writing is so epic love the photos and how you wrote