I posted this one one Myspace on Nov 21, 2008. I know! This year, even!
There may be some other old blogs and postings that I come across, which I will post if I get to it. Heaven knows that I have written enough and I like to have it all in one spot, rather than five or more random spots with too many passwords for me to remember comfortably.
Anyhoo...
Today, while cleaning, I noticed something which disturbed me and I feel the need to share. Be warned, for this is not a topic for the faint of heart. I was picking up my laundry and I noticed a camisole which seemed unfamiliar to me. It was wadded up a little bit, and I bent over to pick it up.
That was when I made The Discovery. This was no camisole. This was a PAIR OF UNDERWEAR. I cannot describe to you the abject horror which pierced my soul as I took a good long look at my Granny Panties, for Granny Panties is the only word which could possibly describe them. They were gigantic, a veritable sail's worth of material. A pair of underwear which could conceivably be cut up and turned into somewhere between five and seven thongs. Which could cover a teenager from shoulders to kneecaps. Which could....which could be the reason why I'm not getting any.
At what point did this happen? When did I become the woman who buys her underwear in a six pack? Why didn't I notice? When did I put my sexuality on the altar of comfort and slit it's throat? I mean, it obviously happened, but why didn't I notice it?
I have been thinking a lot about it, though, since The Discovery. I have come to realize a few differences in my life since my shift into the second of the two great eras of a woman's life: Before Granny Panties and After Granny Panties. I'm comfortable. I am no longer fighting the war of attrition between my butt crack and an overly inquisitive piece of fabric. Granny Panties glue to the backside in such a way that this sort of rabid curiosity is impossible. I win. Granny Panty Elastic, try though it might, cannot pull random hairs from an area which does not appreciate the element of surprise. I cannot say the same thing for my previous sexy looking panties which would pluck anywhere from one to four hairs daily.
So maybe I shouldn't cry foul just yet. I know that in the halcyon days of my youth I swore that I would never ever EVER wear Granny Panties. Ever. But when I was in kindergarten, I think I said the same thing about eating paste.
There may be some other old blogs and postings that I come across, which I will post if I get to it. Heaven knows that I have written enough and I like to have it all in one spot, rather than five or more random spots with too many passwords for me to remember comfortably.
Anyhoo...
Today, while cleaning, I noticed something which disturbed me and I feel the need to share. Be warned, for this is not a topic for the faint of heart. I was picking up my laundry and I noticed a camisole which seemed unfamiliar to me. It was wadded up a little bit, and I bent over to pick it up.
That was when I made The Discovery. This was no camisole. This was a PAIR OF UNDERWEAR. I cannot describe to you the abject horror which pierced my soul as I took a good long look at my Granny Panties, for Granny Panties is the only word which could possibly describe them. They were gigantic, a veritable sail's worth of material. A pair of underwear which could conceivably be cut up and turned into somewhere between five and seven thongs. Which could cover a teenager from shoulders to kneecaps. Which could....which could be the reason why I'm not getting any.
At what point did this happen? When did I become the woman who buys her underwear in a six pack? Why didn't I notice? When did I put my sexuality on the altar of comfort and slit it's throat? I mean, it obviously happened, but why didn't I notice it?
I have been thinking a lot about it, though, since The Discovery. I have come to realize a few differences in my life since my shift into the second of the two great eras of a woman's life: Before Granny Panties and After Granny Panties. I'm comfortable. I am no longer fighting the war of attrition between my butt crack and an overly inquisitive piece of fabric. Granny Panties glue to the backside in such a way that this sort of rabid curiosity is impossible. I win. Granny Panty Elastic, try though it might, cannot pull random hairs from an area which does not appreciate the element of surprise. I cannot say the same thing for my previous sexy looking panties which would pluck anywhere from one to four hairs daily.
So maybe I shouldn't cry foul just yet. I know that in the halcyon days of my youth I swore that I would never ever EVER wear Granny Panties. Ever. But when I was in kindergarten, I think I said the same thing about eating paste.
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