A New Horizon OR It’s Time to Change my Underwear

Written by Lee
Everywhere I go I see them.  


Mothers bending over at the park to scoop up their toddlers. Moms in the mall bending down to dig some fishy crackers out from the basket under their stroller. Mamas around the neighborhood squatting down to pet a friendly dog or to pick up the morning paper.  

Sneaking out from those damn low-rise jeans.

Thong underwear.  

And not just your standard basic comfy cotton thong, I’m talking like black or red or fuschia or flowered or zebra-striped and shiny-silky and often lacy.  Yes, lacy. 

And I’m all, huh?

Now if you read my post last week, you might remember that I admitted actually laying out in the sun in a bikini thong in public.  But I was in my mid-20’s and my body had not yet been subjected to the trauma that growing, sustaining and then pushing out a few kids does.

So I’ve had my thong wearing days, bikini and otherwise, but right about now it feels like a oh, so distant memory.  It’s waaaayyyy back there buried with what it felt like to sleep through the night. But I’m starting to feel it’s time to challenge myself to wrap my brain around the remote possibility that getting my fat ass into a pair of thong underwear will actually help me feel, well, um, like a shadow of my former self.

And really what’s so wrong with feeling like a shadow?  Shadows are kinda cool, kinda mysterious, kinda sexy.  Am I right?

Yeah, I’ll start with the being a shadow and I’ll go from there.

You see, ever since I suffered through that eternal death-defying 36-hour-labor of my firstborn nearly seven years ago, my desire to slip on a pair of thongies has evaporated along with my desire to look at my naked ass in a mirror in broad daylight.  Not like I used to stare at my naked ass in broad daylight all the time BEFORE kids, it’s just that if I caught a glance of it I could tolerate the image.  Now, notsomuch.

And something about all of the hoohah that happens down there during and after you birth a child, well, it just has made me less interested in slipping on a tiny string of cloth across my hoohah.  (Which I NEVER call hoohah by the way. Creative license okay?)

Over the past seven years, my body has expanded and morphed into a baby-making station three times.  And I still have a 22-month-old lil’ dude sucking the life out of me through my nipples.  So my body still feels like it belongs to someone else.  It’s on loaner, as my dear friend says.  Yep, that says it about right.  And while it’s in this loaner/loner state, wearing your basic cotton DKNY beige basic underwear feels like the right mood underwear.

So what’s wrong with me?  I see mamas who have pushed out babies six months ago and less and THEY are back to the thong life already.  What gives?  

WTF?

I wish I could be one of those moms cooing at their infant wearing low-rise jeans and feeling all sexay with my black, lacy, thong underwear showing above my jeans for all to see.  It’s like a sign to the world that it’s all cool down there.  I’m feeling like my old self again. I’m ready for some lovin’ action.  Push out a baby?  Yeah, whateves.

But for me?  It’s been a whole hell of a lot more than whateves.

Sometime between the first birth and now, in the middle of the night somewhere, I feel like I’ve lost a real part of myself.  The part of me that was confident in my body image.  The part of me that was comfortable in my skin.  The part of me that could strut my stuff on the sand in a bikini thong.

And I’m feeling like I want a part of that me back.

Not like I’ll ever look the same.  I know I won’t.  It’s not possible.  Really.  I know that. But I think I can get back a bit of a the thong attitude, you know?  I think it’s in there somewhere and it’s time I start coaxing it back out.  

I think it’ll be good for me.  It’s actually quite essential. For the soul.

Yeah, I’m starting my own personal take-back-the-thong movement.  

And with summer dawning and my third (and last) baby on the verge of turning two-friggin’-years-old already, I’m feeling it’s about damn time.  

Long live the thong.

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