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An Ode to Granny Panties

I suspect I've always been in a hurry to grow up - when it comes to my undergarments.

When I was in junior high, way before I'd even gotten my period, I was walking the aisles of a department store with my mom when I saw the most amazing thing - a clear plastic tube encasing a rolled up strapless bra. The "bra" was really just a circular piece of nude elastic, thin and completely shapeless and nondescript, save for a small embroidered heart, also in nude. I asked her if I could please, pleeeease have it. She looked at me, glanced at my chest, and scoffed, "For what?"

HAHAHA. Savage. I wasn't even stung by it. I probably just thought, True. But I still want it. Story of my life, by the way, wanting shit I definitely do NOT need. At some point, I finally got that useless piece of elastic, which didn't do much for the boobs, if you even had 'em (I didn't). Fast forward to college, and there wasn't a push-up bra with more padding than actual boob that I didn't jump all over. I figured it'd be an adequate substitute for when bigger boobs manifested (they didn't). I needed cleavage like a stripper needs that cash money, honey. And can we talk about thongs? I can't believe I was ever so into them. The only appeal I can now imagine was that I considered it a grown-up thing to wear, because really there's nothing comfortable or practical about them, and we all know I don't give a flying figgedy about underwear lines.

These days, I am all about three kinds of bras, and three kinds only - cute, thin, lacy things; lightly padded bras with no underwire; or no bra at all. I can't remember the last time I wore a bra with underwire. There is simply no need, personally speaking. And when it comes to underwear, the bigger, the better. I like 'em snug and high. I can't sing granny panty praises enough. They're the perfect metaphor for both how I like to live my life and what I want in a partner -- Comfortable. Secure. Supportive. Soft. High af. Just kiddin, the last one.

I bought a three-pair pack of super high-wasted granny panties from TJ Maxx as a joke, and like most jokes, there ends up being an element of truth to them. I wouldn't have guessed, though, that one of my ultimate truths would be granny panties, but apparently I'm 34 going on 89 (or maybe just a very fashion-independent, self-assured 35) which is fine with me because we're all going to die at some point, and when that happens I'd much rather be wearing comfy cotton grans than anything else. Please bury me in them as well.


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