Hubster says: “Dear… Did you know you have a hole in your pants? Don’t you think they’re ready for the bin?”
And sadly, the answer was “Yes, I know.”
Because, you see, alot of my clothes have holes in them, which I suppose might be normal for alot of mummies out there… or is it just me?
The primary reason behind the acceptance of this gradual disintegration of garment seam connectivity is down to one simple fact… overwear.
I reckon I have about seven battle hardened outfits, which are rotated on a weekly basis, sometimes not even making it out of the bulging, voluptuous washing basket, before being called up for duty once more. If it was a nicer set of claes, some would call it a working capsule wardrobe. But this is probably more applicable in the literal sense of my wardrobe being as exciting as a daily vitamin capsule. This is compounded by having a uniform to wear at work, giving no reason for mandatory indulgence in the “work wear” sections of Next, Mango or (giddy eeeek-ness!) Zara, and means rocking up in slobberish jammies is an entirely plausible possibility.
And you know the score- the stripey long sleeve, the slightly bobbly, jazzy fine knit jumper (NEVER washed by hand, as recommended!), the sweatshirt, the slogan tee and sloppy granny cardie. These are my mummy uniform staples and I love/loathe them all. A little too much, it turns out.
I ignore when a hole appears under the arm or on the neck or shoulder. I blame Hubster’s gym kit when a slightly foostie smell persists under the slogan tee’s sleeves, despite the 3rd wash. I begrudge spending what little pocket money I allow myself on yet another black vest, so I eke out its lifetime by years until the shape is in no way similar to mine.
And this brings me back to the pants…
I used to own nothing but lovely pants- or dare I say it, “knickers”! Should the “new, hot, man” (now berated husband) have appeared and demanded hot raunchiness, I could have been ready at a zip-slip and shimmy to reveal hot sizzliness (in my own wee way) in a vibrant, MATCHING, fitting set with no thought of practicality or chaffage.
I would even, quite often, actually opt for a G-string, for Jingsies sake, for fear of VPL (I’m not even sure this is still “a thing”, it’s been so long since I cared!)
But alas, as the song says- “those days are past now, and in the past they must remain…”
Yes, I have maybe two beautifully impractical sets of graceful laciness, which are lovingly put on with sexy anticipation on special occasions- Anniversaries, Crimbo night out, alternate Hogmanays (alternating with “we couldna be arsed so went to bed at 9 in onsies”). But these knickers are for brief Grown Up Only Time. These knickers are not for wedgie inducing lunges to pick up the socks that tumble out of the armfuls of washing when trapsing through the house. Those bras are not for frequent bending over to sort sodding 17 different Jake the Pirate jigsaws into the correct “mummy-hack” sandwich bags.
No, these are for Standing Upright Times. Non Mummying Times. Sophisticated times. Which are infrequent. Thus poor hubster has had to learn to overcome the mood-killing aura of the mummy practi-pant (which BTW also comes in beige, for extra dullness, and black, for semi sexiness)
When hubgrub points out this new level of low from the pant styling department; the “half back of elastic has detached from the HUGE expanse of white cotton to cover every inch of my jiggly child ruined padded arse” , he’s really gently pointing out the line… the line nae to cross… the line beyond which his mojo cannot be revived.
So, I can ditch the G-strings, the laceys, the side releasing ribbons, the front clasps, the corsetry, the peepholes, the low rises, the hi-legs, the tangas (remember those?) and the suspenders safe in the knowledge my man still wants a frisky cuddle…
But be warned nae to further ruin the full white brief!
Now it’s time to buy some new trusty tightey whiteys as these have finally been ditched!
(well, after I wash n’ wear them 3 more times!)