Put your big girl panties on and deal with it.
Ha!
I should wallpaper that saying.
All over my house.
Not that I don't know a little something about panties. Oh, I do. I am a dedicated student of the sassies and have two drawers devoted to several pairs of fun little numbers. (I went a little hog wild at the supermarket of sexy this winter. You know the place. My friend Vicky? The one with the secret?) I subsequently own more unmentionables than I can mention: pink panties, panties with flowers, black panties, sheer panties, silk panties, and more than enough polka dot, hot pink, and sassy little thongs to keep my rear end seamless for months.
I am good in the "big girl" department, let me tell you.
But my favorite ones are, by far, my “Whoops! Didn’t mean to buy those!” pair. Those buggers ended up in my possession in an obviously blonde oblivious moment when I spotted a half-off bin of silky little bloomers with coy rhinestone exclamations etched across the ass. I actually only read one of the butts prior to purchase. It said something like “Cutey” and I thought, “Ooh, how fun are these?” as I grabbed a wad and marched up to the check out.
It wasn’t until I got home that I discovered one of the dicey derriere descriptions was probably not a smart purchase for this diva of Divorce Land.
Oh yeah. You know it.
Scrawled in cursive sparkles. Right across the bumper.
“BRIDE.”
Nice.
Someone call Alanis. Isn’t that ironic?
I still wear them though.
Gives me a great chuckle every time I pee.
Now then, underwear stories aside, back to the big girl panty proclamation intended to inspire.
It’s basically just a nice way of saying, “Quitcher whining, ya big baby.”
And I could use a bulletin along these lines.
Because truth be told I am a HUGE baby. It’s true. I really really am. When I was kid, I was “that girl” bawling on the playground that someone had hurt her feelings. Again.
Back in college I briefly entertained the concept of becoming a lawyer. But I figured my breaking down sobbing every time the opposing counsel yelled “Objection!” might be a detriment on that career path.
So if anyone can use some big girl panties I should be the one ripping off my lacy thong and yelling, “Yoo hoo, over here! Big girl panties, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay over due!”
People who know me but not well will be a little surprised I am such a woos bag. I have the fake confidence thing down pretty well. (I watch a lot of Oprah.)
People who have actually stuck around long enough to know the real big bawling blonde that I am will just nod as they read this confession and mutter to themselves:
Yep.
Audra’s a crier.
Absolutely.
But this weekend I successfully put on my big girl panties. I am happy to report.
Here’s the deal:
I have a fireplace. And I am really ashamed to admit this next part because it is dumb ass and pathetic but I will. (Dignity? Who needs dignity?)
Well, I used that fireplace a lot this winter. And that was back when I was dating someone. Let’s just say it was a super fun pasttime. He and I. And that fireplace . . . the flickering light . . . the sultry steaming . . .
Um.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
Sorry, drifted off there for a minute . . .
Alright, so. The deal is this: I have a pile of ashes in that hearth so high that I could probably add water to it and build an adobe hut. For a family of ten.
And. That pile has been sitting there taunting me since, oh, March-ish.
And it is almost.
Oh.
Um.
Let’s see here . . .
September?
Yep.
If EVER there was a more blatant metaphor for the death of a relationship. This would be it. And notice sappy nostalgic BIG BABY me. I have voluntarily KEPT that symbolism in plain sight like an absolute moron all summer long.
You see, I usually clean out the remnants of my winter fires every spring like clockwork. Well, this spring is when that relationship ended so I wasn’t in the mood to clean it. I remember looking at that pile of soot and wistfully reliving all those great fiery moments from this winter.
Sighing.
And promptly walking out of the room.
Over the summer every once in a while I would walk into my formal living room and get a big whiff of ashes and think, “Oh yeah, I should probably do that.” And then again. I would sigh. Relive a memory or two. Sigh again.
And leave the room.
It was ridiculous.
All the sudden last weekend that was it. I hadn’t thought about my hearth in while. But I wandered by the fireplace, saw that heap of ghostly cinders and literally said out loud, “What the F***?”
In other words, I finally put my big girl panties on.
I scooped those suckers up, deposited them in the trash.
And did not sigh one time.
Because get real, Audra. The summer is ending. And before I know it winter will be here again.
And I will fire up that hearth when it does. Either with someone new or all by myself. I don’t care. I will sprawl out by MY cozy fireplace and create new memories.
Now then, as for if panties will be present during any of any of those future steamy moments just in case I do have company?
Sigh.
Let’s hope not . . .
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