A tale of two panties.

October 8, 2010

Recently, I went shopping for new underwear.  I guess it was time to throw in the towel, admit that I needed to rethink the percentage of lycra in my undergarments.  As I recently described, I have this  ongoing tummy issue that has been driving me crazy.  And while I have grand aspirations to complete the 200 sit-up challenge, in the meantime, it was time to call in for reinforcements.

I made a quick (ha!) trip to the mall.  Try shopping for such things with 3 youngsters in tow.  Imagine one child playing hide and seek in the racks of Maidenform and Olga brand items.  (No, Calvin Klein and other hip manufacturers don’t dabble in the over-the belly-button heavy-duty armor, I had to resort to the more matronly section in the back.)  Another child sat in his stroller, tossing Cheerios in the air like New Year’s confetti.  And my dear middle child, pinching his butt-cheeks together with his hand, announcing “I have to go poop!  It’s an emergency!”   (Disclaimer #1:  We don’t say “butt” in our family, excuse me.  I should have said bottom-cheeks.)  (Disclaimer #2:  We do have discussions of what an emergency is in our family.  Primarily when I need to sit and nurse the youngest. I give strict orders to the other 2 to not bother us or barge in unless it’s an emergency.  Running out of Chex Mix is not an emergency.  Bleeding is.  Etc.)

I survived this shopping trip.  And, more notably, my children also survived.  And I arrived home with my purchases and discovered that I had grabbed the wrong size.  Sigh.  There was no way I was going back to the store to get it right.

Fast forward a few days, when my dear mother arrived.   My mother, who visits Younker’s department store regulary, with her Senior Citizen’s discounts and her handful of coupons that they distribute so freely.  Truly, I suspect that when all is said and done, they give her the merchandise and $5 besides, she seems to come out so far ahead.  Shopping for her is not a frantic, sweaty experience like it is for me.  So I asked her a favor.

“Mom, the next time you go to Younker’s, could you see if they have a smaller size of this underwear?  I should have grabbed them instead of this pair.”  And she willingly did so.  (Thank goodness!)

I was feeling pleased, and then returned home later to find things a little off.  My mom told me “Well they didn’t have exactly the same style in your size, so I picked out something else.”  And after she left, I ventured into my room to see what was waiting for me.

Big undies, heavy on the lycra, just like I asked.  However, instead of a neutral shade of black or “nude,”  (???) I discovered that these horrible things actually come in leopard print.

Good.  Lord.

So now I’m faced with some creepy Mrs. Robinson kind of get-up.  Or better yet, think of Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones Diary, when they were building up to…  you know, and he uncovered her big undies:  “Helloooo Mummy!”  That is what I feel like.

And yet, my little pet tummy is being held in place like a well trained puppy, so I can’t exactly take the moral high road and get rid of them.  What a dilemma.

But remember, the title of this piece is a tale of two panties.  That’s just one.

You see, part of my internal horror is the fact that I really had to face the music with these large unders staring me in the face.  And only one other person on earth could share this moment and this realization with me.

I walked through the kitchen to my husband’s bathroom.  (Remind me sometime, this is an entirely different post, the division of bathrooms in our house.) And I knocked on the door cautiously.  (I didn’t really want to walk in on certain types of activities, if you know I mean.  While I’m on the subject, I will pass on the best pre-marriage advice I ever got:  Keep the Bathroom Door Closed.  Seriously.)

I held up the new panties for his inspection.  (Long gone are the days when I would offer to model them for him.)  And I told him “Oh, how far we have come, husband.”

You see, several years ago, when we were newly married and things were fresh and new and exciting, I was feeling a bit adventurous and flirtatious on one of our date nights.  (Remember those?)  After the meal, I had stopped at the restroom, and then while walking to the car together, I made a move to hold his hand (remember that?) and pressed my undies into his hand instead.  Grrowwwl.

And the irony of all this is that those particular panties were the kind that you do model for your husband.  Some dainty, delicate, small bit of fabric.  And, you guessed it, leopard print.

So here I stand, fighting gravity and bulges wearing my large undies.  But at least I have memories of more daring, and taut, days.  And hopefully my patient husband understands that underneath it all I’m still just a little bit adventurous and daring.  Even if I shop in the matronly section.


One Response to “A tale of two panties.”

  1. kt Says:

    I just laughed so hard, it hurt. LOVE THIS! And ahem…I’m right there with you.

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