July 17, 2012
I buy my pants from the supermarket.
Various reasons. Frugality is up there, but I also retain a kind of front-bottom umbilicus to Twenty Years Ago Me, who regarded lingerie as an entry-level join-point for the forces of subjection (handmaiden: Spandex®). It’s a truth I stand by now – though for sure my capacity for outrage can be measured in inverse proportion to my need to look better semi-naked without surgery.
To which end I’ve been buying better bras – though that in itself is a tortured mission. I really, really don’t want a breasty spongiform carapace, but it’s hard to find anything that’s just bra, with no added porn. I want uplift, without Zelda. It’s really hard to find.
Meanwhile my pants purchase events occur every 6 months or so at Sainsbury’s. I’m prepared to splash out on an upper-body cantilever, but lower-body containment isn’t on my radar: there’s honestly no way I’m going to pay ten quid for a pair of matchy-pants that only the ambulance-man will see. For my abdo-pant requirements (special occasions only) I will continue to patronise Mssrs Spanx. For everyday, I’m happy with supermarket knicks, thanks; I wouldn’t be with OH if I thought he wouldn’t like me in own-brand (big) pants.
Thus it was (Telegraph style-guide bingo players, score 10 points) that I came to be in my kitchen at 9pm, unpacking my late-night shop and clearing the detritus of another working-day. Out of bin-bags – arses, another thing I forgot to buy. Not to worry, here’s an empty Sainsbos carrier I can use as a temporary bin. Let’s put it next to the other Sainsbos carrier containing the pants. (Child-related distraction) now let’s scrape this almost-full but very out-of-date tin of anchovies, rejected for the supper I’m simultaneously preparing, into the temporary bin-bag carrier. The one right next to the identical pant-containing one.
Now let’s wait a couple of weeks. Let’s watch helpful OH, following my massive oversleep, rifle through my Big Box of Pants to help me get dressed quick-sticks . Let’s see him retching as he scratches the snail-trails of oil and shrivelled, teeny-weeny dried fish bodies from his helpful hands, like a man whose wife has anchovies in her pants. Let’s see how he likes me now.
The protocol is that one ends a blog with an invitation to readers to share similar experiences. I’d like to see you bloody try.