My panties have ruined plenty of parties. They have also been the fodder for many party jokes and laughs at my expense.
I can’t deny it: I have always loved gigantic underpants. The bigger the better. Since I ‘m a homegirl at heart, my tendency towards baggy britches meant prodigious panties, or “chones” (the Spanish word for underwear that me and my high school friends latched onto and to this day still use) never posed any problems.
They particularly came in handy during most of the 2000s, a depressing decade that saw the pounds pour on thanks to Prozac and pregnancy.
Not that kind of pregnancy.
My abdomen was growing faster than the rest of my body. I had to pee all the time. I chalked it up to the aforementioned Prozac and march to middle-age.
Until my gyno took one look at me and said, “Congratulations, you’re having a fibroid.”
And so I made my appointment at the rather tony CPMC to have a C-section. There is nothing more fucked up than being on a floor surrounded by women giving birth to actual babies then being there to give birth to a Nerf Football.
It was that big, or so I’m told.
All I can say is that the big bump under my big panties was gone.
Fast forward to today. Sans the fibroid and Prozac bloat and inspired by JSlow’s embrace of the female form, I too have embraced tighter trousers, which in turn call for petite panties.
Yet stashed away in my dresser drawer are a few pairs of big drawers, for old times sake.