When I met my husband, I was 26 and he was 25. I rocked a body back then, and so did he. That time was a time of mutual physical admiration, lots and lots of getting-to-know-you sex, and (at least in my case) an almost unholy amount of tiny underthings.
Tiny underthings. Those over-sheer wisps of mesh and lace that look sexy as hell but offer basically nothing in the way of foundation or support. Tiny underthings range from demi-bras to balconettes, gartered stockings to lace-top thigh highs, teeny bikini-cut panties to thong underwear constituting little more than a string and a prayer.
During that first year with my husband, I went on regular shopping sprees for new dainties. I was known to descend on the lingerie shops shrieking “TAKE MY MONEY” until my bank account was drained and a thousand tiny pink bags of useless lace fragments were mine.
However, much to my husband’s disappointment, my flirtation with tiny underthings did not last long. Mainly because THAT SHIT IS UNCOMFORTABLE. AND EXPENSIVE. AND HIGH-MAINTENANCE. Don’t get me wrong, I cast no aspersions upon women who manage to make sexy lingerie work for them. But I myself just… couldn’t. Believe me, I tried.
And I failed.
You see, after about a year of tiny underthings, several realities about them became abundantly clear:
- Tiny underthings did not play nice with my vajay. They were itchy, clammy, and yeast infection-y. My vaginal chemistry was *never* happy. I longed for a cotton gusset.
- Tiny underthings required too much special washing and handling. My mother told me: “Buy a lingerie bag, some Woolite, and throw it all in the washing machine on delicate.” Lingerie bag? Woolite? A washing machine cycle other than “whatever it’s already on”? Yeah, none of that ever happened. I threw my expensive lingerie in the wash with towels and jeans, and watched it disintegrate instantly.
- Tiny underthings simply don’t cut it when you’re a relatively busty woman with considerable back door biscuits. To put it bluntly, I needed lingerie with a lot more muscle and know-how. I required underwire. I required full coverage. I required reinforced straps and a serious amount of hooks. I required bras so big that my husband and I could stand side by side and wear each cup as a hat (and later did.)
So I gave up on tiny underthings, as well as the extra helping of self-confidence that comes with them. But you know what? I have no regrets. Because, you see, I no longer have quadra-boob from trying to stuff my flabby bosom into a too-small balconette bra that the Victoria’s Secret saleswomen ASSURED me would fit like a glove. I no longer have crack chafe from a gritty piece of butt floss jammed in my sweaty ass all day. And best of all? Yeast infections are at an all-time low.
And just so you know? While I may have moved on into full-coverage old lady bras and 100% cotton underdudes years ago, I’ve only just recently taken the next step. What many might consider the LAST step. You see, I had a hysterectomy, and now there’s a big old abdominal incision that’s right where the elastic part of my old cotton panties nestle into the roll. I can’t have that anymore… or at least not until the incision heals completely.
So what’s the solution? I hear you asking.
The solution, my dears, is granny panties. And if you don’t have any? I HIGHLY SUGGEST PICKING SOME UP. They are comfortable. They are supportive. They come in a wide variety of horrible chintzy patterns and pastels. Oh, you’re worried they’re unsexy? Well to that I say: husbands and boyfriends and partners of all gender identities be damned. It’s time for them to grow up, and be grateful when I jiggle my way out of them. They must move on from their fixation with tiny underthings to experience all that is… love in the time of granny panties.