The preoccu tion started with a set of three lacy bralettes — one red, one cream, and my favorite, a impenetrable navy blue. They were from American Ap rel, bought for $20 each on a whim during my first year of college. I regard as I was just looking for something to buy (the popular retailer was located around the corner from my dorm), and after listing in our freshman courses, New York invited us to do little else but shop. The lingerie order fit seamlessly into my well-curated, slightly smaller wardrobe — the one that allowed me to redefine myself in a new town and help me feel sexy and independent — even if I was the only one who knew nigh it. Throughout high school, I’d always loved the classic Hanky nky low-rise thongs. In rticulars, I had collected just about every color, but I didn’t care with reference to matching my bottoms and tops or accruing sets. But enter the college years, and abruptly, every time I slipped into my new bras, I found myself deficient to complete the look. Since I don’t have large breasts, the unstructured make of the American Ap rel pieces didn’t bother me. Instead, I appreciated their fragileness. I made the firm decision not to throw my prized possessions in the temperamental washers and dryers that marked the back wall in the basement. I folded them neatly in the plastic drawers beneath my bed and pirouetted between each color, sighing every morning as I rummaged toe my underwear drawer, searching for material that matched in hue.