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My Giant Knickers
They’re laid out on the bed, like some deflated, beige flag representing my just-had-a-baby saggy glory.
”Those are my knickers. I’m packing for our holiday,” I say defiantly.
”No, no you’re not taking those. They look like some kind of ace-bandage wrapping, or men’s 1930s swimming
Great, I thought. I kind of agreed with him, but I didn’t want to face an alternative. These scuba-like pants were certainly practical, and they felt ”safe”. As in, ”you’ll need a shoehorn and WD-40 to get me out of these things” safe.
As per usual, I deflected with humour. ”Okay, clingfilm, then? What can I do to keep all thissss (circling my hand in front of my belly and pouting my lips like some bargain-basement catalogue model) looking sexy?”
He starts to smile and raises his eyebrows slightly. ”But you look great..
Yes, I know what you’re thinking.
A lot of men, my husband included, would choose that slinky lingerie that resembles a tangled mass of fishing line, black cheesecloth netting, and a couple of pink bows (to make it ”classy”, I presume). It’s the hopeful, Christmas-morning excitement that they get, hoping they’ll get to fool around with some kind of supermodel fantasy. I have that kind of lingerie (I’m no supermodel). Back in the day, I liked wearing it a lot, even going so far as to
I held my hand up. ”I’ll stop you right there. No fancy stuff. My Incredible Underpants are going in the bag, I’m overruling you. Nothing I have fits me anymore anyway. These pants hide it all…” I mumbled that last bit and it dissipated into the space between us. My cheeks burned crimson, because I felt really awkward
I gave him that stare, the stop talking, this isn’t fun stare (I have 3 kids, I need efficient ways of communicating), and it ended the conversation. He left the room.
The next day, whilst he was at work, I was editing the contents of the suitcase, securing a place for my giant knickers (okay, full disclosure: I packed three pairs, in different colours). I looked over at my lingerie that was cowering at the back of the drawer. I sighed. I took it all out in handfuls and
I never vocalise negative feelings about myself in front of my kids. I’m careful to project a body-confident and strong example, especially for my daughters. But that doesn’t
I think partners are pretty handy in situations like this. They spot the person hiding underneath, through all the various layers of insecurity and self-defeat. They spot the original amongst all the Amaro-filtered copies. They love us unconditionally, without agenda or logical reason. My guy loves the fact that inane adverts make me sob, he supports that I have unwieldy childhood baggage, he loves that I’m prone to sweary outbursts and aggressive hand gestures. When I’m standing in
Shaking up that self-love can be tricky. I have bills to juggle, kids to sidestep, in-laws to keep happy, mummy-group-politics to navigate. It’s exhausting, but I find reminders in the little things. It’s P!nk circa 2010 on full blast in the kitchen when I’m burning toast. It’s a wink in the rearview mirror when
I’m strong and unique and fearless and vocal and beautiful. Not because someone says I am, but because I am inherently that, and I’m starting to believe it. It’s the content of my character. It’s the hidden magic simmering underneath all the loud noise. Big pants, small pants, frilly pants… none of it
Those giant pants taught me to start loving the person that I was, that I am, and that I’m constantly becoming.
That night, I did pack some lingerie that looked like glorified dental floss AND all three
*Yes, coincidentally, I’m currently writing a piece about lady-garden maintenance. Watch this space.