Reasons why being single is awesome

So, because my Mema passed away last week, I had to pull my little black dress from the back of my closet and I realized that I was going to have to buy a pair of pantyhose to wear with it. I LOATHE pantyhose. They’re constricting and uncomfortable and the waistbands always roll down and the crotch always finds a way to sag a bit. I’m short you guys — like, 4′ 11 3/4″ tall. I’m pretty certain that the Oompa Loompas were taller than me. At least I have more attractive skin.

Finding pantyhose to fit me has always been super hard… Even before I was, erm… Plump. My inseam is about as long as a loaf of french bread and my thighs have always touched. And my ass? Let’s not get started there. I’m fully stocked in the junk-in-the-trunk arena. So the combination of being not stick-thin and really fucking short has always made shopping of any kind difficult. I can hem pants and skirts and dresses, but what the fuck can you do about pantyhose that are too long? Tie at knot at your toes and just tuck the excess under your foot? Let me tell you, that is not really all that comfortable. And there’s nothing sexy about having something at the end of your foot that looks like a sheer black artificial foreskin flopping around.

So, I needed pantyhose — off to Target I go, so we all know what happened. I went for a $4 pair of black pantyhose and left with $50 worth of stuff that I NEEEEEED. Mmhmm. We know how it works, Target. I don’t know how you do it, but it always happens — I always leave with more than I need. Fuck you, Target. You’re probably the reason I’m poor. Thank GOD I have never opened a Target credit card. I would be fucked so hard.

So, on the list of things we got at Target: A red zipper hoodie for the boy, some socks for both him and for me ($5 for six pair! That’s a steal!), some underwear for him, and some panties for me. I also bought an industrial sized box of Chewy Granola bars because, you know… A house isn’t a home until you’ve got thirty granola bars.

The panties I bought looked cute, but I mostly bought them because they were cheap – $3 for five pair. I bought two packs. The package said they were “hipsters” but I neglected to see a beard or a pair of wide-rimmed eyeglasses or an ironic tee in the package, but I went with it. Hanes has been in the panty business for longer than I’ve been alive, I should trust them, right?

Plus, the girl on the package looked kind of hot in her all cotton panties. She’s working it, smiling… She’s even got a wind machine blowing her hair — or maybe that’s just how fun these panties are. Hanes Hipster Panties – so fun they’ll blow your hair.

Certainly, the panties looked like they were comfortable, what with their full coverage and fabric waist band. I was mostly excited to have new panties. My current stock of comfortable panties was, shall we say, on the way out… Sort of stretched out and prone to wedgies and what not. That’s not cute at all. None of my sexy panties are all that comfortable, so HUZZAH! Bring in the fresh cotton panties for everyday wear!

This is also the moment that I thought, “Good God! I must be getting old. I’m appreciating function over form.” This is probably when my fat ass also picked up the granola bars during the shopping trip, but whatever, let’s focus on the point of this blog post, okay?

So I get these bad boys home and pull them out of the package. I’m a little surprised at how … BIG they seem. I mean, they’re my size, alright and every single pair was just as, *gulp*, BIG. I dismiss it, assuring myself it’s because there’s all this extra fabric that is supposed to cover my hips — HIPSters. Now I am starting to understand why my panties aren’t smoking Parliments and drinking PBR.

I throw them in the wash and pack them in my suitcase for my trip.

Maybe they’ll shrink a little…?

I put on a pair for the six hour ride up to my hometown. Oh em gee, guys. These are some of the most comfortable panties I’ve ever put on in my life. There is no riding up my ass, there is none of that sagging-on-the-top of my ass shit happening or the ever-irritating jeans-pulling-panties down trick. It’s awesome. And I got the multicolored pack, so my ass is riding in style. Lime green comfort, y’all. It was amazing.

It wasn’t until I got home from my trip and peeled my clothes off after the six hour drive home that I realized I was wearing granny panties.

SHOCK.

And I liked them.

DOUBLE SHOCK.

No, they didn’t come above my belly button. They were very much just up to my hips, but mercy… Maybe it’s because I’m really short and I’ve only got a 3″ long waistline to begin with. Maybe it’s old age settling on my body like the smell of rose perfume and Fixodent. I’m not sure what it was, but I really liked the fucking granny panties.

Then I got to thinking — why am I embarrassed about my love of granny panties? I’m almost thirty years old and single. If I do end up having sex with someone, it’s because I have put it on my list of things to do along with shaving my legs and pits and plucking my stray eyebrow hairs.

I have found the trifecta of single woman happiness: hairy legs, granny panties, and not-giving-a-flipping-fuck.

So I will rock my granny panties with the same level of confidence as one of the Victoria’s Secret models. I will wear the wide coverage over my ass proudly and revel in the fact that my ass crack doesn’t hang out the back of my pants while, simultaneously, my fupita is contained in the front by the comfortable self-fabric waistline. Shit, I’ve got TEN PAIRS of these suckers to rotate into my daily panty allowance. Do you know how happy this makes me?

The bad news is that this revelation will probably change the entire course of my dating life — I am now adding to my list of qualities I seek in a man: must appreciate how fabulously sexy granny panties make me feel. Needle in a haystack, folks…