Valentines Day. The sexiest time of the year. The time that always gets me thinking about what’s in my pants.
I am a chronic wedgie picker. I don’t know if I have deep cracks or what my deal is but I know that I dig for my gitch constantly at home and in public. In public I will at least try and back up against a wall so it’s not as obvious or look over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching. After all, I am still a lady.
I hate underwear. I am not a person that can go without it, but I find it very uncomfortable. Over a year ago I decided it was time to step up my panty game. I would go to La Senza and purchase some sexier underwear so if my husband came home and decided to rip my clothes off with his teeth, he would find a hot goddess straight out of a Victoria’s Secret ad. I bought a few pairs that had more bling than fabric, but I was also reasonable and bought some that were more than just a string attached to an elastic band. They had bows so I thought they were cute and lets get real, I didn’t want to completely spoil my husband. I don’t have time to be devoured that much.
I am not a fan of any of these. Unfortunately, I have grown used to my “sleeping underwear” as I like to call them. They are comfortable, full coverage and wedgie free. They could be classified as granny panties, Jeremie calls them train wrecks. One nude pair that damn near reached my belly button, in particular. And now that I think about it, I haven’t seen them in a while and can’t help but feel they were stolen and chopped up into tiny unwearable pieces.
My attempt at sexy panties was a total bust. Whether it was the sight of me picking them out of my bum, or the numerous times I caught myself wearing a pair backwards, then inside-out, and then one day backwards and inside-out, I couldn’t get the hang of it. I don’t think I’m an idiot, but it does get confusing when some pairs have bows on the front, and others on the back and the width of the crotch part is the same as the ass part. In my defence, I had just found out I was pregnant and I would like to use my “pregnancy brain” card here.
During my pregnancy I felt I had the perfect excuse. I bought more Fruit of the Looms than I could possibly wear and sat comfortably in the butt area for the better part of nine months. Of course they were a size up, since my ass had grown along with my belly. I told myself I would wear them until I was all healed up after having a child. Horror stories told me I would be ruining anything I wore down there for days postpartum, so I would let them live a short life then throw them in the garbage. After all, they were my pregnancy panties.
Now that I sit here and type this, I am ashamed of the Fruit of the Looms I am currently wearing. They don’t even fit me because they were bought a size up and were supposed to be thrown away almost eight months ago. I don’t even save them for bed time anymore. When did I stop caring about panty lines? Have I completely let myself go? How did I even get knocked up in the first place? Why do they even give women so many options? I can’t be trusted to buy anything other than “hipster fit.” I think I have some serious drawer cleaning to do. If Jeremie comes home from work and there is a garbage can full of cotton underwear, it is going to be the best Valentines Day ever.
Below is a picture of my vast collection of granny panties. This doesn’t include the pair I am currently wearing, or the ones that are sitting in a hamper full of a weeks worth of laundry. I also attached a picture of my “train wrecks.” (I did find them, Jer only wishes he had got his hands on them to burn). To please him, I will dispose of them myself 🙁 I asked him if the picture was too sexual to post… Apparently there is nothing sexual about these horrible things, besides the shadowy area of my actual vagina. Choose not to notice it.
Rest in Peace, my sweet polyester angel.
