There they were, splashed in the style pages of The New York Times. Hell, if they could make it there, like the song says, they can make it anywhere.
Here was the proof that I was right all along – that my finger was on the pulse, that I am at the vanguard of fashion. Not only am I ahead of the curve – damn it, I am the curve.
The naysayers may continue to say nay, but I say yay. Yay for comfort edging, yay for high waists and yay for the journalist who made my day, if not entire life by typing GRANNY PANTS ARE OFFICIALLY COOL.
Having it acknowledged in print felt as good as the first time I slipped into some, the result of an unfortunate laundry incident.
Living by myself at the time – no husband, no children, no responsibilities whatsoever (wistful sigh) –occasionally, I’d commit the sin of not doing my laundry for a couple of days.
Okay, alright, truthfully … a couple of weeks. So, naturally, the day came when my undies drawer was bereft of the lace and lycra undergarments befitting one of my age and social status (read: young, single, looking for love or even just a casual dalliance. Your place or mine – even your mum’s house is fine).
Yet there was one pair left. Giant white underpants I’d been given as a joke birthday present. I’d held onto them being true to my frugal yet practical Scottish heritage. They may come in handy should I need to hand-wash a large truck with a giant sponge, or escape enemy fire by creating a makeshift parachute. A girl never can be too sure or too prepared.
So here they lay in my drawer, alone and unloved. And here I stood in front of that drawer, alone and unclothed. We were the perfect match.
As I carefully hoisted those brushed cotton pants over my hips, I felt a quiver of excitement. They rested comfortably just above my bellybutton and a warmth enveloped the lower half of my body, the entire lower half of my body.
They hugged me in all the right and the wrong places. An audible sigh escaped my lips. There was a party in my pants and nobody was on the guest list.
Yes, for the first time in years, I felt truly satisfied in the downstairs department.
Finally a solution to the underwear problems that had plagued me for years. Begone scratching, itching, digging and protruding.
No more unsightly G-string hanging over waistbands, no more wrestling with uncomfortable placement of lace bows, no more visible panty line (VPL) and no more wedgies requiring a quick trip to the toot for an extraction.
It was cotton for my bottom forever more. Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy …
I was resolute – out with the old undies and in with the new.
Yet I attracted scorn from well-meaning friends convinced I should put my underwear choice underground.
They begged me to turn my new big cotton panties back into scanties. Questions like, “How could you?”, “Why do you?” and the obvious one, “How does he?”, were frequent visitors to my conversation pit.
However, I cared not for their words, knowing that my life had improved immeasurably. My kidneys were warm all the time and that deadliest of sins – vanity – was dead to me.
I no longer carried superficial worries about colour-matching my undies with my bra, having reached an almost Buddhist detachment from my undercarriage.
I also felt pleased that I was creating a safer neighbourhood as would-be sexual predators would most likely flee to greener pastures should they spy my undies flapping on the line.
I always wondered why grannies seem so serene, so content and so peaceful. Was it their experience, their wisdom or perhaps their access to A-grade pharmaceuticals?
No, it’s just that they’ve been sitting on a big secret for years … a big comfy secret.
ABOUT THE WRITER
Amanda Blair lives in Adelaide with her four children and a husband she quite likes when she sees him. In her spare time, she talks a lot and sometimes does it on the radio and the telly.
This story originally appeared in the July 2015 issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly.
