Firstly I want to start by saying, I know "Love Island" is rubbish, but I love reality TV, it's my escapism, plus this latest series has been so good, I'm totally there for the drama! Anyway, "Love Island" has prompted some quite high brow discussions between me and my sister Lucy this week, about knickers.
I'm not sure whether I've firmly entered middle age or if there is a way of life that as someone who is the fabulous side of chubby I am not a party too.
As the girls all paraded in slow-mo down the steps into the villa for a night of more bitching and pretending they weren't bothered that the fella they like hasn't "pulled them for a chat", when they are definitely "their type on paper", I marvelled at their outfits.
I always play a game called "if I were thin enough, would I wear it?' Most things Jennifer Aniston chooses get a big thumbs up, most of the dresses the girls in the villa are an absolute not a flipping chance.
I can never work out how their boobs stay hidden by strips of material, even at my slinkiest, I have always had huge boobs, no amount of tit tape is keeping those bad boys in place.
The girls are all stunning, but they seem to wear dresses that have 2 bits of nipple scraping material that then goes into a waistband. That waistband has a piece of material attached to the front and back and huge slits down the sides.
These dresses promoted the question, what knickers do you wear with a dress like that? See what I mean about entering middle-aged-dom?
Lucy reckons you don't wear pants, but I reckon if you didn't wear something, at some point, everybody would get to see what you had for lunch.
Lucy agreed I had a point, no one wants you winking at them whilst they're enjoying a casual glass of a prosecco and a slut drop to Taylor Swift. We concluded that there must be a secret knicker shop, where skinny people buy pants that fit under these sort of dresses. I think they probably have some sort of sticky tape that attaches to you, that's the only way I can see they stay on..... or up. I can't shake the idea that they're really just some kind of old fashioned sanitary towel that ties around your waist.
Fat people have no idea about these kind of knicker shops, because they don't need to know. It's just like muggles not knowing about Diagon alley. Muggles don't need to buy a wand or a half a litre of butter beer, fat people don't need to know. I reckon once you reach your target weight, your Slimming World leader gives you a certificate, a pin and a list to wear all the secret knicker shops are.
In my knicker draw there are many pairs of "magic knickers". These aren't knickers that conjure up Jason Mamoa when I put them on... now that would be quite the pair of pants!
I think for most women a pair of magic knickers are a staple wardrobe item, they tuck you in, suck you up and then weirdly push the fat they’re sucking and tucking in out under your arm pits, because lets face it that excess fat has to spill out somewhere!
I remember talking about magic knickers at work once and a lady I used to work.
"Jenny” was one of these ladies who was so posh you couldn’t really work out how old she was. She still referred to her Mum as “Mummy” and used words like “aghast” and "perennial" in general conversation. I think she was about mid 40’s to early 50’s and had a cracking figure. She was always off down the gym and would even go running on holiday. I remember her describing in minute detail a run she’d been on in some Spanish hills. My holidays usually consist of me coming back knowing the recipe of a local cocktail, and a realisation that an all inclusive buffet isn't a way of life.
That's probably why she had her figure and I had mine.
She had no clue what magic knickers were and so I explained. The look on her face must have been very similar to the one that Leonardo Da Vinci got when he was trying to explain to his mate that he’d had this idea for a flying thing that could be called a helicopter.
“Jenny” wandered out the kitchen looking aghast (see I can use it in general conversation too) and I can only assume she went back into her office to speak to the other skinny ladies in there about whether they’d ever heard of “magic knickers”, I'm guessing they hadn't either.
I'm not ashamed to own magic knickers, we all need a little sucking in or pushing out at times, but every time I peg them on the washingline, I think about my Aunty Dolly.
My Aunty Dolly (who my kitten Dolly is named after) lived her whole life in a picturesque cottage in Blackwell. She was born there, sadly died there and never ventured as far as Nottingham. She was one of those gloriously bonkers Auntys, who wasn't really your aunty, she was my gran's best friend, they'd been friends since they were at school.
I loved going to visit her, I loved her cottage, she didn't seem to have any rules, she had a piano that you could make as much noise on as you wanted, she'd "spill the T", she didn't care if me and Lucy were in the room and when you left, she’d send you off with half a tea service, a tomato and a calendar from 1982.
I remember taking my gran over to visit once, I had just started driving, so was desperate to drive to as many places as I could. As I sat on a stool drinking my tea, they started talking about knickers. Aunty Dolly said she never hung her “breeches” on the line because she didn’t want her neighbours looking at her pants. My Gran pointed out that her neighbours probably thought she didn’t wear any. A few days later my Aunty Dolly phoned my Gran to say she’d thought of a solution to the “breeches” issue she’d bought some stunt pants and would be hanging them on the line, so her neighbours would never get to see her real pants.
There’s a part of me that has always hoped when my aunty Dolly bought her stunt pants, she found the secret shop that the Love Island girls buy their knickers from and tiny pieces of fabric blew merrily in the wind of the washing line of an 80 year old lady, who smugly believed that her neighbours wouldn't be judging her knickers.
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