Stop Wearing Granny Panties

Do you know the difference between granny panties and pin-up girl panties? Attitude.

Okay, maybe the high waisted retro panties feature a bit more lace, and a bit less beige, but those are minor differences. The real distinction is the attitude of the woman wearing them.

How do you think of yourself?

If you think of yourself as frumpy, chances are you look it.  Sorry.  I deleted that twice before leaving it there.  It’s just true.  If you think of yourself that way, no matter what you wear, it shows through.

We often are told that if we dress differently, we will feel more confident.  Sometimes that is true.  However, wearing ill-fitting or uncomfortable clothing is not a mood booster.  Nobody looks or feels fantastic when their clothing requires constant adjustment.  Tugging your pants up or your shirt down, adjusting your bra straps, trying to wiggle out of a wedgie:  these are neither attractive nor confidence builders.

I am not advocating a makeover for your lingerie drawer.  I’m advocating a makeover of your mindset.  Let’s start with not calling anything “granny panties.”  Call them Pin-Up Girl Panties.  You, you’re the pin-up girl.  Pin up girls come in all sizes, so no excuses, and they’ve been around longer than you, so you are not too old, either.

If you feel great in a thong, or boy shorts, or bikinis, or hip huggers, or spanx, wear them.  It does not matter what sort of underpinnings you wear.  It matters that you are comfortable and feel good about yourself.

Undergarments aren’t seen by most people.  Or shouldn’t be.  That hot pink bra strap that doesn’t line up with your sundress straps, or the top of the thong showing when you reach down, they don’t make your look.  They might get noticed, but people should be noticing you, not your underwear.

Have you ever thought, as the mom standing in line in front of you bent down to pick up the dropped binky, “Wow, if it wasn’t for the visible Y of her thong, she would look like such a frump?”  No, nobody ever has.  If you’d seen the top of her pin-up girl panties instead, she’d have looked no more or less like the woman she is.  So it doesn’t matter what undies you wear.

Remember, you are not a frump.  You’re a pin-up girl.  In disguise.

Why disguise it?  Because I don’t think most women are trying to convey sexy 24/7.  Sometimes, yes, and for certain people, definitely.  Usually, most women I know want to look nice, beautiful, maybe stylish, not older than we are, maybe sophisticated or quirky or professional, often thinner than we are, and more confident than many of us feel.  We don’t need or want to arouse everyone we encounter.  So everyone needn’t know you’re a pin-up girl.  It’s enough that you know it.  (You can let your husband in on the secret, but I bet he already knows.)

Whatever look you choose, it’s confidence that will make it work.  Confidence and a smile.  Do you think the most appealing photo in this set is the first?  She’s smiling, that’s why.

So wear your comfortable panties and know that you look great when you feel great.  Stop calling them granny panties.  Even if you are a grandmother.  If you don’t want to think of yourself as a pin-up girl, remember, Wonder Woman wore full coverage briefs, too.  You can be a superhero.

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Has your dog ever eaten your panties?

Have you seen dog-shaming.com? Some of the entries make me laugh til I cry. Dogs are so bad (my own included), and the owners are even worse (myself included).

Still, I cannot help but wonder about the panty-eating dogs. Or, more accurately, their owners. Do these people not own laundry hampers? How many pairs of panties get eaten before you start putting them somewhere the dog can’t get them?  Do they not worry about their dogs suffering from bowel blockages?

I’ve lived with a panty eater. We adopted Pepper from a shelter when I was eleven, and he lived to see me become a mom. A twelve pound rat terrier, we never bothered to try to train him. He had all kinds of bad habits, like running away (which is how he ended up at the dog pound) and nipping our ankles when we ran, but the only trait I did not find endearing was the panty snatching and eating of feminine hygiene products.

Those two were gross. Worse for a painfully shy teen, they were embarrassing, because he would bring my panties downstairs when visitors appeared. Increase the embarrassment factor by ten because most of the time the visitors were the friends of my teenaged brother.

Slob though I was, it only took a couple occasions of seeing Pepper trotting into the living room carrying my panties to learn that lesson. Jeans and t-shirts could be,  and were, safely left littering the bedroom floor, but dirty panties had to be stashed out of his reach. And he was a high jumper.  Blood soaked pads had to be wrapped in bags, then put in the trash, which I moved under the sink. At least by me. The rest of the family never embraced the trash under the sink concept, but I have stuck with it to this day.

Goodness but I loved that bad dog.

Generation Spanx?

That was the first name I considered for this blog. It seems to describe my stage of life. I decided against it because I’m pretty sure the people at Spanx want in no way to be associated with me. They might even voice their objections, causing me to have to think of another name. So why not just avoid what might turn into a lawsuit? (Besides, I almost never wear Spanx, even though they do work a neat trick.)

This is Karen Gillan, a tall, redheaded actress. Other than height and hair, we look nothing alike. Not even when I was young was I so beautiful.

So here I am, A Faded Ginger. That is true. My hair faded to nondescript not-quite-brown after I had my sons, which was over twenty years ago. Over twenty years ago. I had to repeat that so it could sink in. I am a mom, but not a mommyblogger. Not in the sense of talking about the antics of adorable children. No, my youngest, my only girl, is fourteen. My mantra is, “Nobody is at their best at fourteen.” Last year my mantra was, “Nobody is at their best at thirteen. My sons are in their twenties. Any stories I might will share about them will be more about my ineptitude than their adorability.

Back to my hair. I am like someone who, because she was blonde as a child, thinks of herself as blonde for the rest of their life. Miss Clairol might help. I’m like that, but a redhead who does not dye her hair. Yet. The fact that employees at the DMV argue with me when I list my hair as red means nothing. The lighting is horrible in those places. I’m still a ginger, albeit a faded one.

I am trying not to fade away in other aspects of my life, though. I’m trying to embrace this new stage of my life, and enjoy it as much as I did the last. I don’t find myself all that interesting, but I hope you do. I hope that someone, somewhere, reads this and thinks, “See! It’s not just me!” That is why I’m writing – to you, for me – about being middle aged, full of faults, and happy.