There comes a time in every woman’s life when her underwear drawer becomes a battlefield.
On one side, the soft, cotton embrace of granny panties, waving their flag of comfort and dignity. Then on the other side, thong and bikini undies, a defiant whisper of youth, rebellion, and a “you can’t tell me I’m old” attitude. And somewhere in the middle — uninvited and yet ever-present — hemorrhoids, sitting like bitter referees with ice packs and judgment.
This, my friends, is not just a story about undergarments. This is a story about identity. About change. About choosing sides in a war you never meant to fight. A battle that sneaked in while you busy taking care of others and trying to find a minute for yourself.
The Call to Suffer Fashionably
There was a time when I would have died before being seen in anything larger than a Band-Aid with lace. I stood proudly in the aisle of Victoria’s Secret, clutching a $28 thong like it was my ticket to eternal desirability. “Comfort is for quitters,” I told myself, ignoring the wedgie that had become a permanent resident.
And then… life happened. Hormones rebelled. Gravity proved it had no loyalty. And one day, while trying to squeeze into a thong post-menopause, my hemorrhoids screamed, “Pick a side, any side — just make it wide enough to sit down without crying!” And I was sure at that moment if I actually got into the thong, it might be lost in my cracks and crevices and never found again.
Granny Panties: The Return of the Queen
Granny panties did not sneak into my life. They charged in, waving high-waisted banners and elasticated waists like a rescue squad of tiny (or not so tiny) cotton therapists.
At first, I hid them — ashamed. I felt like I’d betrayed my younger self, the one who thought Spanx were sexy and matching lingerie meant something profound. But one night, while sitting peacefully (for once) in my full-bottomed glory, I realized something: Comfort is not weakness. It’s wisdom.
And still, my thong and bikini collection lingered in the drawer like a high school yearbook — rarely opened, often judged, never thrown away. I couldn’t get rid of them. I was afraid if I let them go, I would lose her — the younger me who believed in invincibility, in flirtation, in possibility, in youth.
I was afraid I’d lose her forever.
The Hemorrhoid in the Room
And of course, let’s not forget the true antagonist in this epic: hemorrhoids. Nothing will drive you faster into the arms of a cotton brief than trying to negotiate a thong and a gravity-ridden body, whispering, “I dare you.”
They are the ultimate equalizers — glamorous, painful reminders that your body is not here for your fashion dreams. Your body is here for survival. And right now, it just wants a break.
So Where Do I Stand?
Right smack in the middle of the aisle, holding up a cute undies in one hand and a 6-pack of high-waisted briefs in the other. I haven’t thrown either out. They both have their place — just like the younger me and the older me. Just like grief and healing. Beauty and discomfort. Passion and practicality.
Because life isn’t about choosing one identity and sticking with it. It’s about holding space for all of you — even the parts wrapped in beige elastic or dental-floss lace.
So to the granny panties and other undies fighting it out in my drawer, and to the hemorrhoids shouting from the cheap seats: I see you. I hear you.
And I choose… me.
In full, fabulous, high-waisted, occasionally cheeky (no pun intended), cotton-covered glory.
Here are a few of my favorites. See you next time! Donetta
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