I got out of the shower this morning and just like every other day, I pulled on my giant pair of granny panties. They are the antithesis of everything sexy, from the full butt coverage to the high elasticized waist panel that tucks in the muffin top. Put on a pair of these and the thrice daily plumber butt shows become a thing of the past. In short, granny panties are a mommy’s best friend.
Unfortunately, my path to enlightenment was fraught with horrors and mishaps. I had a brief fling with boxer briefs (shudder). Try stripping down in front of your significant other in a pair of undies that showcase your best features: a bulging waistline and thunder thighs. It’s almost enough to put off even the most sex-deprived spouse.
Most of my 20’s was spent in a long love/hate relationship with the whale tail…the butt floss…the thong-a-longa-ding-dong. With a name like g-string it seems like something that should cause auto-orgasms with each step. If only!
Those sexy scraps of lace looked like a wrought iron fence around an abandoned park if I wasn’t “landscaped” to perfection. The sporty version with its masculine cotton panels and “comfort” strip in the back rubbed blisters where the good lord split me. Not a situation I cared to explain to co-workers as I hobbled along.
One day I realized that the only truly comfy pair of thongs I owned consisted of three strings and a minuscule cotton panel with snoopy on the front. (No, I am not making that up.) I felt like a five year old prostitute.
That day I abandoned all pretense of the sex kitten, afternoon quickie, mile-high club identity that I wasn’t backing up anyways. I embraced my spit-up stained, sippy-cup carrying, sleep-deprived outer image and slipped on a pair of granny panties.
And I have never looked back.
So long, thong-a-longa-ding-dong. May you forevermore chafe someone else’s butt.