I realize that many of you have likely been wondering for some time what type of underwear a sexy bitch like myself wears, so today is your lucky day. Much like Andre 3000, I dig them old skool, regular drawers – 100% cotton, full coverage, cute prints. It used to be the bikini brief, but in the past couple of years, I have cultivated an appreciation for boy shorts. They cover my ass and don’t ride up, and something about the name appeals to my love of androgyny. Still, some people have, in the past, referred to my choice of drawers as “granny panties.” Back then, I found that term offensive, so I no longer speak to these people. But I can assure you, they were wrong; until now, I have never before worn granny panties.
Caveat – I realize I just used the phrase “granny panties,” but that is the only instance in which the use of the word “panties” is acceptable. Please don’t ever say the word “panties” around me without “granny” before it. It makes my skin crawl, and I am likely to vomit on you.
How did this happen, you say? Well, a few weeks ago, while in the grips of pre-graduation and last minute residency preparation hysteria, I was whining to my mom about all the things I needed to do and mentioned that I needed some new underwear. Mom, being Mom, was distressed by my distress. So, probably hoping to relieve me of one stressor, she took it upon herself to buy me some new pants.
Fast forward a couple of days. While staring out the window in panic-induced catatonia, laptop open and displaying the presentation I was pretending to edit, my phone rang. I did not recognize the number. Gleeful for an actual excuse to ignore my work, I answered. It was my mom.
“I’m at BJ’s.” (BJ’s is a buyer’s club sort of like Sam’s, for those who don’t know. And as this is a post about underwear, no jokes about the name, please. Keep it classy.) “They’ve got 3 packs of Hanes for six bucks.”
Feel free to take a moment to work through the inevitable titillation you feel at reading the words “3 packs of Hanes.” Picture it, picture it … now, let it go. Okay? Okay.
“What size do you need?”
I told her, but I will not tell you. A proper lady never reveals her age or her underwear size.
“What kind do you wear?”
“You know. I like the ones with the big butts.”
“Well, they’ve got bikinis, hi cut, thongs –”
“No, no, no. The boy shorts ones.”
Dead air. “Do you mean these hipster ones?”
After getting over the idea of wearing hipster underwear, I said, “Yeah, probably.”
“Are you sure? These are pretty wide on the sides.”
“Well, boy shorts are wide on the sides.”
Caveat – I realize I just used the phrase “granny panties,” but that is the only instance in which the use of the word “panties” is acceptable. Please don’t ever say the word “panties” around me without “granny” before it. It makes my skin crawl, and I am likely to vomit on you.
How did this happen, you say? Well, a few weeks ago, while in the grips of pre-graduation and last minute residency preparation hysteria, I was whining to my mom about all the things I needed to do and mentioned that I needed some new underwear. Mom, being Mom, was distressed by my distress. So, probably hoping to relieve me of one stressor, she took it upon herself to buy me some new pants.
Fast forward a couple of days. While staring out the window in panic-induced catatonia, laptop open and displaying the presentation I was pretending to edit, my phone rang. I did not recognize the number. Gleeful for an actual excuse to ignore my work, I answered. It was my mom.
“I’m at BJ’s.” (BJ’s is a buyer’s club sort of like Sam’s, for those who don’t know. And as this is a post about underwear, no jokes about the name, please. Keep it classy.) “They’ve got 3 packs of Hanes for six bucks.”
Feel free to take a moment to work through the inevitable titillation you feel at reading the words “3 packs of Hanes.” Picture it, picture it … now, let it go. Okay? Okay.
“What size do you need?”
I told her, but I will not tell you. A proper lady never reveals her age or her underwear size.
“What kind do you wear?”
“You know. I like the ones with the big butts.”
“Well, they’ve got bikinis, hi cut, thongs –”
“No, no, no. The boy shorts ones.”
Dead air. “Do you mean these hipster ones?”
After getting over the idea of wearing hipster underwear, I said, “Yeah, probably.”
“Are you sure? These are pretty wide on the sides.”
“Well, boy shorts are wide on the sides.”
We said our good-byes. In my mind, I was now the proud owner of some of these.
The next day, my mom showed up at my place with these.
A younger me would have refused to wear such humongous garments. She would have felt the implication about her butt size was offensive, and would have felt the assault on her sex appeal most keenly. Old lady me, however, stopped to think. If I protested the vast, roomy butt covers, either me or my mom would have to return them. Inconvenient. New butt covers would have to be purchased. Mom, after having her original effort spurned, was not likely to try again. She’s sensitive like that. So I would have to go. Inconvenient.
I held up a pair of the undies. They were bigger than my head, and could have easily cradled a watermelon in their capacious depths. Still, they were there, in my hands. And they were cotton. They’d probably shrink. And no one but me and the cats ever saw my underwear, so what did it really matter?
After checking once more to make sure I was not a Victoria’s Secrets underwear model, and thus would not lose either reputation or income by wearing granny panties, I decided, what the hell? I tossed them in the wash, extra hot, and didn’t give it another thought.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny. I removed a pair of the granny panties from the dryer – black, white waist band, reminiscent of actual boy’s underwear. They did not appear to have shrunk at all. Dubious, I slid them on. At once, a peaceful feeling washed over me. It must be what a baby feels when a clean diaper is wrapped around its baby buttocks – clean, protected, safe. There was the small problem of the waist band being an inch higher than that of my skirt, but the tails of my shirt hid that little factoid quite nicely.
Throughout the day, I began to really enjoy my granny panties. True to the claim on the packaging, they did not ride up. Who knew truth in advertising still existed? They were insanely comfortable. Not so comfortable that I peed myself, but that feeling of infantile security I’d experienced earlier in the day never left. I was ready for anything. A strong gust of wind? No problem. My ass was covered, and then some. A revealing incident while bending forward? No way, no how. I’ve already documented that the waist band exceeded that of my skirt. A car crash, Goddess forbid? There could not be an emergency tech alive who would cut off my clothing, see these underwear, and think that I was anything but an angel, despite all the tattoos. I felt like that alone would improve any care I might receive. You can’t tell me they don’t work harder to save the “good” ones when the ER is overcrowded.
It’s been about a month now, and me and my granny panties are still in our honeymoon phase. Not one pair has made its way into my crack; they have not shrunk in the slightest; their colors and prints look as good as they did that first day; and I have yet to find a lower body garment with a higher waist band. They are sturdy, reliable, a great comfort in a world so insane. No matter what happens, my ass is still covered, and then some. I may never switch back to non-grannies again. Grannies 4eva! *floaty hearts*
I held up a pair of the undies. They were bigger than my head, and could have easily cradled a watermelon in their capacious depths. Still, they were there, in my hands. And they were cotton. They’d probably shrink. And no one but me and the cats ever saw my underwear, so what did it really matter?
After checking once more to make sure I was not a Victoria’s Secrets underwear model, and thus would not lose either reputation or income by wearing granny panties, I decided, what the hell? I tossed them in the wash, extra hot, and didn’t give it another thought.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny. I removed a pair of the granny panties from the dryer – black, white waist band, reminiscent of actual boy’s underwear. They did not appear to have shrunk at all. Dubious, I slid them on. At once, a peaceful feeling washed over me. It must be what a baby feels when a clean diaper is wrapped around its baby buttocks – clean, protected, safe. There was the small problem of the waist band being an inch higher than that of my skirt, but the tails of my shirt hid that little factoid quite nicely.
Throughout the day, I began to really enjoy my granny panties. True to the claim on the packaging, they did not ride up. Who knew truth in advertising still existed? They were insanely comfortable. Not so comfortable that I peed myself, but that feeling of infantile security I’d experienced earlier in the day never left. I was ready for anything. A strong gust of wind? No problem. My ass was covered, and then some. A revealing incident while bending forward? No way, no how. I’ve already documented that the waist band exceeded that of my skirt. A car crash, Goddess forbid? There could not be an emergency tech alive who would cut off my clothing, see these underwear, and think that I was anything but an angel, despite all the tattoos. I felt like that alone would improve any care I might receive. You can’t tell me they don’t work harder to save the “good” ones when the ER is overcrowded.
It’s been about a month now, and me and my granny panties are still in our honeymoon phase. Not one pair has made its way into my crack; they have not shrunk in the slightest; their colors and prints look as good as they did that first day; and I have yet to find a lower body garment with a higher waist band. They are sturdy, reliable, a great comfort in a world so insane. No matter what happens, my ass is still covered, and then some. I may never switch back to non-grannies again. Grannies 4eva! *floaty hearts*
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