Saturday, 18 July 2015

Undies, Grundies, Exotic Lingerie or Commando?

A little pressie for someone off on a hot date weekend. Matching bits bound for the floor?

When I was 11, the nature of your Knicky-noos became extremely important. I am old enough to remember when bikini knickers came into vogue. My mother must have thought they were the work of the devil and so it was great big bloomers for me, until my 11th birthday, when all my girlfriends presented me with divine bikini knickers in a variety of colours and styles and I can still recall very clearly the lacy black pair with a little red bow. Well the old woman nearly blew a gasket and I was forbidden from wearing them to school. I was meant to save 'em for the weekend.

Yeh right! I wore 'em under the bloomers and whipped those shitful things off when I walked around the corner and then I was good to go the big Flash at the high jump. I hand washed 'em in the shower and just kept popping the bloomers into the family wash.

In years 8 and 9 at The Convent, the sports uniform included those hideous bloomers, and the Nuns seemed to have the god given right to stop you dead in your tracks and ferret away under your dress to check that your bits were covered by yards of gabardine. The knicker police and the ruler measure of dress length are among my strongest memories of my short stay with the Nuns.

Perhaps because of all this controversy, once I started being responsible for covering my own arse, I  opted for pretty bits of nothing.

Of course there have been less than cute interludes like when I was preggie and weighed in at heavyweight status. Maybe I just didn't look hard enough, but the confusion about what knickers to wear with the belly bulge is still with me - the whole under or over the bulge dilemma.

And then there was a long long design drought, when perfunctory took the place of pretty. These were the 'married years' and it's possible to argue that, as my lack of lace interest was on a par with his peel 'em off passion, the union was bound to fail.

But what a revelation my dating 30s were! Who knew there were so many different types of knickers?

It's difficult to understand how knicky-noos can confuse but French knickers were almost beyond me. I couldn't wear 'em under pants cos of they'd go all squishy-uppy and similarly you had to wear pantyhose under 'em and that was just yukky. Some smarty-pants women of course are able to manage stockings but when I tried them I spent a lot of time head-down-arse-up swivelling 'em up from around my ankles.  I had some pure silk frenchies that needed to be ironed and to be fair that was about as close as I got to being able to manage those suckers.

I spent a while trying to train myself up to desist from plucking the thread of a G-string out of my bum while waiting for a bus, and then decided that life was just too short and so too was the string.

I loved matching knickers and bras and co-ordinating a whole outfit. I called it dressing from the ground up.

Now in my fifties, I still want a little sexy something about my undies...yeh sure they are bigger than they were in my 30s. Oh who am I kidding, seriously a whole family could toggle a couple of pairs together and make a good sized tent, but I still want 'em to have a bit of something about 'em. I only buy black ones and they need to have a bit of lace - presumably as a throw back to those lovely 11 year old ones.

And being the knicker fascist that I am, Steve is only ever clad in black undies. I just hate those coloured saggy arsed 'old man' grundies.

Some might say that our washing line is indicative of a boring sad pair of gits, but you know what? I don't give a shit.

Yeh this is the washing line - black on black punctuated by pink
What would it take for you to push the boat out for new sexy somewhat uncomfortable undies?

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