There. I said it. Granny Panties.
LOL. I’m guessing I’ve lost most of the men who follow my blog. For this post, at least.
But I mean it. The fact of the matter is that–almost half a century ago–even at this point in my life:
Now, don’t get me wrong or put words in my mouth. Restrain yourselves, if you can. I don’t “hate” young women who wear frippery undergarments. I actually know many who do. And if women of a “certain age” find that it validates their femininity, or fascinates their men-friends to know that they’re wearing postage-stamp size undies that seem tied together with ethereal dental floss, then–go for it, girls! Whatever floats your boat.
It’s just not my jam. And–she says without shame–it never has been.
I suspect it’s one of the great lessons I learned from my Mum. There were many such positive ones, and–unfortunately–some difficult and negative ones as well. But when it came to feeling good in your own skin, wearing what suited you, and not bothering about what your peers–or anyone else for that matter–might think, Mum had much to teach her girls.
I like undies that stay put. I like them to rise high enough that any little bumps and bulges (and I do have a few–those that have developed since that photo above) are covered, and don’t become obstacles to their pulling up all the way, or that make the elastic legs or tops fold over and, thus, uncomfortable to wear, I like the “business” part of the garment to be wide enough and stable enough that it doesn’t keep disappearing up my hoo-ha, only to be revealed, upon the taking-off as sadly disheveled and unpleasantly moist. (Sorry. One of the clearly-advertised categories of this post is “plain speaking.” It is what it is.) I like them to be cotton because it’s comfortable, it breathes, and it’s absorbent. None of those things are characteristics of nylon, polyester, or the cheap lace that seems so prevalent in the undergarment world these days. Silk (another natural fiber) is also quite good in all these regards, although ruinously expensive. Wool, ditto. But good luck getting anyone to consider wool underwear in this day and age.
So, no tangas for me, (ever in my life). Hmmm. Liguistically, I’m contemplating “thong” and “tanga.” Probably some some sort of common Romance language root. There is nothing new (or even all that transgressive) under the sun. For those with a pedantic streak who are also somewhat self-aware, at least.
But I digress.
Ladies, all: No matter your age, if you’d like your hind quarters dry, cool, and comfortable, I highly recommend you get yourselves to Target or Walmart and check out cheap cotton underpants. Brief-style, not “bikini.” Buy a size or two larger than your (actual, not delusional) measurements, because they’ll shrink in the dryer, and you don’t want to have to fuss with them. If you’re embarrassed to buy panties of that size, either use the self-checkout line and hide the evidence, or order from Amazon or similar, and they’ll arrive in an envelope which–I promise you–won’t be emblazoned with the words “THE RECIPIENT OF THIS PACKAGE HAS AN ENORMOUS ASS!”
If you’re me, though, you just don’t care. You pick them up, sail through the checkout line, and move on.
Here’s to modesty, comfort, sanity, and–above all–adulthood, when it comes to what we wear and what we feel it’s appropriate to share. Mostly, those lessons come with age. Sometimes, unfortunately, that isn’t the case. But, once again, things are what they are, we observe the indiscretions** and the inappropriate effulgences (which say so much more about them than they do about us), and we move on.
I suppose I should, in the interests of thoroughness, mention that other unmentionable–the brassiere. I’m a Bali girl myself, and even I am susceptible to a bit of lacy flattery there. Perhaps because–although I’m 67 years old–I’m not dead yet. I like them because they’re well-made, supportive, and varied enough that I can choose my style for the occasion, or for the effect I’m trying to achieve. (Mostly, ICYMI, that effect is “sensible, and works on the farm.” Oh, well.)
And there you have it.
Next up on RWKJ’s Fashion Hit Parade?
**Such as, on occasion, married men (with adult girl children) in their seventh decade on this earth posting photo after photo of their soi-disant girlfriends’ underpants (ugh) and inviting sad old women to slobber over, titivate, and speculate upon them. Twitter’s a sewer. But it’s not the only one. Lord. And thanks for the (many) laughs.