I am hesitant to write ANOTHER post about panties–even though the one about walking out of your panties has been my most popular to date!–but here goes. Well, this is hard to talk about but I hear that it happens in a lot of mixed marriages–when NORMAL people marry Brasilians…
OK, no more stalling…
The cleaning lady keeps mixing up my panties with G’s underwear.
I frankly don’t know which of us should be more offended. We have to unstack the stacks and sort them again after she leaves. Maybe it’s a vision problem, you say? Could be. But I think there’s more to it.
About once a year, G’s mother sends him a package from Brasil and invariably, it contains a few pair of…sultry Latin undergarments for the modern man on the go. I guess over our years together, through attrition and acts of God, the ratio of sultry Latin undergarments to normal underwear has grown disproportionate. Then you have to throw in the fact that, along the same time line, I discovered maternity underwear and the forgiving nature of cotton. As his underwear got smaller, mine…didn’t.
Well. We could maybe make a graph that shows how the accumulation of sultry Latin undergarments versus the accumulation of voluminous panties has culminated in this laundry catastrophe. But I’m not sure how to set that up in Excel.
Truth is, I think it’s time. I plan to get back to the healthy weight that I was when I was running and eating cleaner. But until then, I think it’s time for me to go buy new panties and I’ve just got to get over the fact that they’re not going to be in the size they were before I had a baby at 42. But I deserve some big, girl panties. I don’t need to be bound, twisted, bunched, pinched, itched, and constricted on a daily basis. And maybe the cleaning lady will be able to tell the difference between mine and his. I wonder if they have Hello Kitty in my size?