Cotton is King

Too many years ago to count Todd came home from a trip to Paris with an obscenely expensive lingerie set for me. Picture it. Black lace corset top, tight in all the right places and black lace thong that looked more like architected dental floss than panties. I opened the present wrapped in a delicate deep purple tissue paper longing for a bracelet, maybe a necklace. Todd's face was all eyes and anticipation. The gift revealed, my instant thought: He must have mixed up my gift with the one he bought for his happily slutty mistress.

Spoiler alert: I'm the granny underwear type. My horizons have broadened over the years, but for this gal, it will always be comfort over class, coverage instead of crotchless and pima cotton above Parisian lace. Occasionally a Hanky Panky pair makes a show of herself, but not often enough according to my true love. 

The abuse from my inner circle is endless. To successfully sport the Granny style, one has to be strong willed, convicted and thick-skinned. They are a female chorus of thong advocates, lace lovers and an occasional g-string. My closest cavalry even has a few brave commando females who balk at my investment in cotton. 

Basic cotton undies simply don't get the respect they deserve. Anyway, despite Todd's desire to have me dressed in lace and corsets, the end game is still the same - love me or leave me but the grannies stay.

While the less is more philosophy isn't lost on me or my rear, paying too much money for too little fabric doesn't stimulate me either (who am I kidding? Is this really about cost saving?). But cotton is cool as in Saturday Night Fever dance floor cool.

I have tried the alternative and the result made me feel like a self-impostor, like a brunette dyed metallic blond with telltale dark eyebrows. The whole thing just didn't work on me. Plus, sexy panties that can double as band aids for paper cuts are impractical.  

I do try because what makes my husband happy makes me happy too, but probably not often enough. It strikes me as odd to have to "get used to wearing" a certain type of panties. Some things just should not require perseverance and fortitude. Jogging, of course. Learning to love Japanese Sea Urchin, for sure. Underwear that are so lacy and tiny they could thread through the eye of a needle, you've got to be kidding me.

Remi palate expanding

I'm reminded of when Remi got her palate expander to correct her cross bite. The orthodontist, giving me the marching orders, told me Remi would drool for the first day, lisp initially and feel discomfort from the newly installed bridge across the roof of her mouth. After that she continued, Remi and the expander would settle into a partnership of mild irritation. Mild irritation for a perfect smile, yes. Mild irritation because my undies are burrowing into my colon - ah, no!