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My Massive Pants

I have finally given in.
Long have I loved the security of the massive pant, all that bum coverage and high enough tummy protection.
I do remember a "brief" period (mwah ha) of adventurously buying brightly coloured, bow- ridden thongy things, I think it was in the first years at uni, when boyfriends were new and alcohol was still in my system on the next morning's shopping trip. Using public launderettes also helped I guess, wanting to look "shexy" plus being the better side of a size 12.

I still thought though, years later, that I could mask the full granny pants effect, a lovely lacey waistband, plain black, no one need even know that I am getting older... and wider...

M&S ran out of my favourite knickers though, and as I had typically left it until the very last, draughty, threadbare, elastic-pinging moment to get new undies, in desperation I grabbed these beauties.


Just look at them.

I keep thinking someone has put their ancient relative's washing in with mine. I actually can't believe I'm wearing them. Is this "letting yourself go"? They're even floral, for fuck's sake.

Comfy as fuck too, obviously, but what have I done?

I turned to wearing leggings a long time ago, they are a staple for me more than jeans ever were, and I do love a good smock. No one could ever accuse me of being fashionable, modern or even a flattering dresser, and I have never cared amazingly about that, but the pants? These pants are a bridge too far. But I don't think there's any turning back, not now.

Perhaps the time has come, at the grand old age of 35, for me to stop giving a flying monkeys. I keep waiting to feel like a grown up, but OAPs tell me it never happens! I'm very definitely a grown-up, I have a house, a child, bills to pay and cleaning to do. Somehow these things have happened over the last ten years and I still don't believe I'm an adult.

But these pants, my god.
These pants tell me I'm ancient as fuck.


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