“I keep feeling a cool draught when I use this towel,” muttered Scotto, as he shaved in front of the mirror this morning.
Wondering what the hell he was talking about I poked my head around the bathroom door.
Photo has been blurred. Scotto's not really a Ken doll.
“Oh! I see what you mean…" I gasped, "maybe we should call in to Kmart this morning and buy some new towels,”
You know the type… nasty little French things with the propensity to sneak up your butt giving you a wedgie with every single step you take.
“I need to buy some new undies and bras as well so we may as well go out this morning and brave the walking dead at Kmart together,” I decided.
So there we were, dodging the zombie mob at the shops; Scotto leading the way with Pinky trailing behind sporadically checking over her shoulder each time she needed to pick her panties out of her bottom.
Ten years (and five kilograms) ago, back in the heady days when Scotto and I first met, we’d often call into a little, specialty lingerie shop where I bought all my underwear. We eventually had to stop going because it became uncomfortable when the girls behind the counter began to know us by name.
“What about this?” Scotto would grin holding up a naughty nurse ensemble.
“Maybe…” I’d reply. “But only if you promise to mow the lawn this afternoon.”
“Or this policewoman outfit?” he’d beg.
“Sure thing,” I’d promise. “As soon as you hang those pictures up in the hall.”
(I know it sounds like emotional blackmail but it works a treat girls.)
But as I said, that was ten years ago and things are different now.
Comfort and security are the name of the game when selecting my underwear now.
Not quite Bridget Jones’ grannie pants but somewhere between what you’d expect Jessica Rabbit and Marge Simpson might wear; closer to Marge if I’m being truthful.
Beige, cotton, dependable and a size larger than I need so as not to feel restricting are what I seek out. The baggy bum does make me resemble an over-sized toddler who needs their nappy/diaper changed but nevertheless they’re exceedingly comfy.
I bought six pairs.
“One for each day of the week and on the seventh day I can just turn one pair inside out!” I joked to Scotto.
“Or you could go commando!” he winked back.
Seems all is not lost...
P.S. If you think I’m a terrible wife for posting the photo above, I did ask Scotto if I could put it on my blog and he gave a definitive ‘thumbs down’.
“Why not?” I asked, expecting protestations regarding over sharing and modesty.
“Because I look fat,” he complained resentfully.
What about you? Do you go for comfort or glamour when buying underwear?
I acknowledged, staring at what could loosely be labelled a 'thread-bare towel' draped around Scotto’s waist which unexpectedly revealed a pair of cheeky buns.
I’d only just peered into my undie drawer and was dismayed to discover the only pair of clean knickers left were a hot pink lacy number which my seventeen year old daughter Lulu had given me at Christmas.
I’d only just peered into my undie drawer and was dismayed to discover the only pair of clean knickers left were a hot pink lacy number which my seventeen year old daughter Lulu had given me at Christmas.
You know the type… nasty little French things with the propensity to sneak up your butt giving you a wedgie with every single step you take.
“I need to buy some new undies and bras as well so we may as well go out this morning and brave the walking dead at Kmart together,” I decided.
So there we were, dodging the zombie mob at the shops; Scotto leading the way with Pinky trailing behind sporadically checking over her shoulder each time she needed to pick her panties out of her bottom.
Ten years (and five kilograms) ago, back in the heady days when Scotto and I first met, we’d often call into a little, specialty lingerie shop where I bought all my underwear. We eventually had to stop going because it became uncomfortable when the girls behind the counter began to know us by name.
“What about this?” Scotto would grin holding up a naughty nurse ensemble.
“Maybe…” I’d reply. “But only if you promise to mow the lawn this afternoon.”
“Or this policewoman outfit?” he’d beg.
“Sure thing,” I’d promise. “As soon as you hang those pictures up in the hall.”
(I know it sounds like emotional blackmail but it works a treat girls.)
But as I said, that was ten years ago and things are different now.
Comfort and security are the name of the game when selecting my underwear now.
Not quite Bridget Jones’ grannie pants but somewhere between what you’d expect Jessica Rabbit and Marge Simpson might wear; closer to Marge if I’m being truthful.
Beige, cotton, dependable and a size larger than I need so as not to feel restricting are what I seek out. The baggy bum does make me resemble an over-sized toddler who needs their nappy/diaper changed but nevertheless they’re exceedingly comfy.
I bought six pairs.
“One for each day of the week and on the seventh day I can just turn one pair inside out!” I joked to Scotto.
“Or you could go commando!” he winked back.
Seems all is not lost...
P.S. If you think I’m a terrible wife for posting the photo above, I did ask Scotto if I could put it on my blog and he gave a definitive ‘thumbs down’.
“Why not?” I asked, expecting protestations regarding over sharing and modesty.
“Because I look fat,” he complained resentfully.
What about you? Do you go for comfort or glamour when buying underwear?
