Lessons in Love & Undies
After nearly 9.5 years of marriage, my husband is still finding little ways to surprise me.
Did you just read that in a lovey-dovey, sweet way? If so, back up and start over. You’re reading the wrong blog for that.
Before bedtime last night, I asked Severus* to fetch me a different pair underpants from the laundry basket. Disclaimer: ‘laundry basket’ is strictly a figure of speech, as our freshly washed clothes are gathered in an insurmountable pile on the spare bed.
“What kind?” he asked.
“Something comfy-ish,” I replied.
“Oh, you mean the granny panties.”
If you are a man who is in a relationship with a woman (or one who hopes to one day be in a relationship with a woman), I feel it is my duty to advise you to never utter those two words.
Lest ye find yourself sleeping on the sofa or picking up body parts after falling prey to the “You. Said. What?!” laser-stare of death from your estrogen-driven better half.
I’m 30 years old. I’ve been married almost a decade. I’ve learned a thing or two about the virtues of comfort. Maybe I don’t want the entirety of my cheeks hanging out all the time anymore. Maybe I don’t enjoy feeling violated by my undergarments. And maybe, just maybe, lace can be irritating.
The presence of nice soft cotton or smooth nylon/spandex blend with a little coverage does not mean I’ve fallen hiney-first into the land of the postmenopausal…does it?
I still have my pride, dang it!
Pride that I’m questioning at this very moment. Publicly discussing my underwear is personal and embarrassing—my dad reads this stuff!
But being accused of wearing “granny panties” is pretty darn embarrassing, too. Especially when the undies in question are most definitely not “granny panties,” and the aforementioned husband should know better.
Let this mutual shaming be a lesson to us all.
*y’all do know his name isn’t really Severus, right? I gave him the option of being called Sirius or Severus and he chose the latter. He’s a special guy, and I love him dearly in spite of it.