I'm Too Sexy For My Mother's Underpants

I did an almost perfect job of packing when we flew back to New York last month. Almost. Except for one thing. I forgot to pack underwear for myself.

I discovered that little fact the morning after we arrived, when I went to get dressed. Not a huge problem, really; I knew we'd be heading to a store later in the day where I could purchase some new pretty, lacy things if I so desired. But at the moment, it was a conundrum. I mean, I'm no prude, but there's something about the idea of going commando when you're spending the day watching college basketball with your 76-year-old stepfather that's just...disturbing.

So I trudged up the stairs, asked my mother for a loaner pair, and trudged back down to put them on. Baroy, who'd been in the bathroom the whole time, came back into the room as I was frowning into a mirror.

"What's the matter?" he said, before glancing up.

"They fit," I replied glumly. "I can't believe they fit."

"What fits?" he asked, only then looking up. "Wh-Wha-What are THOSE?"

"My mother's underpants," I said, still frowning into the mirror. "And they fit me."

Baroy put his hand up, a sharp, sudden movement. "The only chance we have of ever having sex in the future," he said, "is if I leave this room right now, and you never say another word about this again."

Once upon a time, I used to be kind of sexy. Not so much in the "oh my god, take a look at HER" kind of way, but more in the "I'm fairly smart and kind of funny and I don't take sex too seriously but I'm pretty sure we'll enjoy it" kind of way. But also, I tended to make the right choices, to make the most of what I had. I have never had any use for thongs or lacy camisoles; rather, I was the kind of girl who used to automatically throw on my boyfriend's button-down shirt over a pair of my own blue jeans, a move that almost never failed to get an appreciative response.

At some point during the past few years, however, that instinct died a horrible and apparently painful death. Unfortunately, I was never informed of the tragedy. Instead, I've continued to go around thinking I know what I'm doing; that I can do no wrong.

I and my mother's underpants are here to tell you that I can, and I have.

The final death knell for whatever sliver of sex appeal I may have retained sounded this afternoon when I decided to model my new bathing suits for Baroy.

Here is everything you need to know to understand why that was a stupid idea: I currently weigh about 20 pounds more than I did the last time I bought a new bathing suit.

"I know it looks a little like a grandma bathing suit," I said brightly, bounding down the stairs in my new two-piece halter-top-with-built-in-support-bra and mini-skirted-bottom-designed-to-hide-unsightly-hip-bulges suit. "But I think it's kind of cute."

Baroy turned with a smile that almost immediately faded. "Yeah, it does," he said. "It does look like a grandma bathing suit." And he turned back to the dishes he was washing. Then, realizing that he'd perhaps been impolitic, he turned back again, "But, yeah, it's cute," he said, weakly.

This is the way my sex life ends.
This is the way my sex life ends.
This is the way my sex life ends.
Not with a bang, but with a grandma bathing suit.
[With apologies to T.S. Eliot]