undies. (not much else to say here)

TMI alert. You’ve been warned.

I’m comfortable in bloomers. Granny undies, big old pantaloons, you get my drift. I understand how troubling this may sound, largely because I’m nowhere near the age where a package of gigantic Hanes underwear should be so appealing. But they are the enormous sirens to my wide-eyed Ulysses, and I always heed the call. I’ll leave you to your psychoanalysis about my devotion, but I did tell you that I was a Square Peg, right?

Captures my mother’s shocked reaction perfectly. Except she’s not a cat. She’s cute, though.

Of course, this post has everything to do with my mother. Because I live with her and I inhabit the bedroom I had when I was 12, she has no qualms about sometimes opening my bedroom door all willy nilly. After all, there was no such thing as “privacy” when I was 12, so why abide by such a thing now? (Needless to say, working on flying the coop once again; love the lady who birthed me more than life itself, but there is major arrested development action going on at home, despite the hilarity that typically ensues.) As a result, when she opened the door one morning as I was getting ready for work–in other words, barely clothed–I wasn’t too surprised. What occurred next: she remarked that I needed to buy new undies. Specifically, she gasped in horror at my grannies, nearly collapsed, and remarked that there was no excuse in the world for what I was wearing. As usual, I laughed it off and commented that I cared more about pretty blouses than the grannies I chose to wear. She tsked tsked, shook her head, and quickly retreated back to her bedroom, whispering all kinds of things about her crazy daughter under her breath.

She’s right though, ya’ll. She’s right. I’ve been lectured by Mom about “being a lady” my whole life, but I didn’t feel like this applied to my fat undies. Well, I had my epiphany yesterday when I was doing my laundry. Those things are the size of Versailles. But without the luxury and gold rooms. They’re big, boring, and shapeless. So, as much as I enjoy marching to the beat of my own square pegs, I reluctantly admit that coming into my own with my personal style should also apply to my pantaloons. Largely because they will fall down on me one day. (If you haven’t guessed it already, I’m definitely buying sizes bigger than what I should be wearing.) Anyway, time to go shopping. Woo hoo?

TMI over. You can breathe now.


2 Replies to “undies. (not much else to say here)”

  1. Lol!! I laughed the whole way through this. I buy cute undies. Not because anyone will see them (obvy), but because I think they’re cute. I’m a sucker for stripes and polka dots and cute little phrases and patterns. And once you start, you won’t be able to stop with the cute underwear. What I wear isn’t sexy or appealing. It’s just cute, and fun, because that’s how I like my underwear. Welcome to the world of non-Grannies, my friend. I think you’ll like it here.

    1. Haha, thank you. I can’t promise that I won’t follow the siren call to the grannies, but I’ll just stare like a weirdo and opt for some cute animal prints. 😉 😉

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