The bartenders wore underwear as uniform: bright-white boyshort-underwear that amply displayed the southern two-thirds portion of their ass. And no, it was not a case of short-shorts gone shrunken; my own undergarment collection is varied enough that I recognize a pair of my own when I see it.

On top, they wore a wife-beater that resembled a sports bra, save for a handmade slit that cut the neckline deep enough to touch the elastic hemline –because the outfit was apparently not revealing enough –and only old people, like myself at the ripened age of 24, would foster every square inch of fabric allocated.

The uniforms would have been appropriate –though still unseemly –at a trendy club playing house music, but not an aging cop-bar in downtown St Paul.

We stared at them. A lot.

The girls stared more than the guys; the girls judged while the guys tried not to ogle and be classified as creepy in the oh-so-likely-chance one of the bartenders found them attractive. The girls weren’t staring at them because we were jealous. Ok, maybe a little jealous. Definitely jealous of their confidence but not necessarily of their bodies –without detailing the specifics of my or my friends’ body types, our pants sizes fluctuate between two and six, qualifying us to be in the same general range as the bartenders.

We mostly stared because we had so many questions.

1. Even though the uniform is underwear, would one wear a nude thong underneath? Judging from everyone’s prevalent camel toes, they opted against doubling-upon the underwear.
2. What if one were to have their period?
3. Tampons do not always catch everything and red spots would be … horrifyingly unable to hide. Would you call in sick? Would you bring extra uniform “shorts” for mid-act costume changes?
4. Also, the tampon string … what if it escaped the confines of the boy-short underwear? A subtle (unhygienic) tuck before pouring customers’ beverages?
5. We were sure they would change after work, but come bar-time, they grabbed their petite party purses without any sign of sweatpants. What if they had to stop for gas on the way home? And I know they must come to like the attention but really? Attention at a gas station?
6. How much are the tips? The bar was not crowded. Our cocktails were never completely empty before a fresh round appeared. Granted it was a cop bar so Saturday might be the police officers’ busy work night. My guy friends tipped as they would with clothed bartenders, and don’t the dirty old men have families to support?
7. Bartenders spill stuff. Where do these girls wipe their hands as the preferred and convenient location of the hip is not the best option?
8. Is retirement required after reaching a certain age/weight range?

My buzz never reached drunk and I, therefore, never asked the bartenders these Very Important ponderings that needed answers. But maybe … Internet, do you know? I am quite confounded, as were the rest of the girls, though the guys thought our line questioning a tad asinine because, hell, they had underwear-clad girls pouring them drinks.