Big girl’s pants

DD and I went to see comedian Kitty Flanagan perform last night. Her show freaked me out slightly for two reasons.

The first reason is that many moons ago there was a disaster with tickets I bought DD to see Kitty for his birthday.

I kept all the details of a secret for months, which was very unlike me. I was soooooo smug as I announced we were heading to the Blue Mountains for the night for a very special reason.

I kept loudly congratulating myself during the car trip, saying how clever I was and noting I’d organised the BEST birthday present EVER.

It’s never a good idea to be too pleased with yourself because it makes the universe mischievous. And so … my best-ever birthday treat was a bust.

It started out well enough – we watched the sun rise at Avalon, then we drove to a restaurant in Wentworth Falls called Nineteen23 for a fancy two-course lunch with the most fabulous view. Afterwards, we headed to Leura for coffee. As we sat having coffee, I told DD the best bit of his present was still to come and I had a special outing planned for the evening.

I refused to give him any hints about what it might be and he had a mild panic attack about it being a murder mystery night.

He begged me to at least tell him what time his secret birthday treat was happening.

It was precisely 2.43pm when I unfolded the sheet of paper to check the details and promptly burst into tears.

His birthday treat was tickets see his favourite comedian, Kitty Flanagan, perform at Springwood.

What I hadn’t noticed when I bought the tickets was that it was a MATINEE performance … that started at 2pm.

We. Had. Missed. It.

Anyhoo, we didn’t miss it last night. And she was hilarious, so much relatable stuff.

But I got such a shock when she launched into one of her routines, which included her signing a rousing tune called “my big underpants, my great underpants” – and how much she loves them – with her sister Penny.

Why it shocked me is that I had just started writing a blog post about big underpants. How freaky is that?

It goes like this …

A middle-aged ladies lingerie store is closing down in my neighbourhood, so I paid a visit to flick through the dusty merchandise.

I have spent most of my adult life being a black Bonds bikini brief girl, wearing each pair until they verge on disintegrating.

This is mainly because Bonds bikini briefs used to be keenly priced and comfortable, but in recent years they have become neither.

My recent three packs have been very disappointing. They have changed the design and the leg part at the back, which should sit snugly on my butt cheeks, verges on flappy. I do not care for it.

I have also developed a sexy middle aged condition called “apron belly”, exacerbated by a caesarean scar. I will spare you the deep-dive details on what that looks like, but it doesn’t lend itself to wearing bikini briefs.

Google it if you’re super keen to see the horrors that nature has in store for everyone who isn’t Liz Hurley or J’Lo.

So I went to the lingerie store in search of middle-aged undies. Preferably not Bonds cottontail granny pants, but ones with a higher waist and bits of lace and the occasional diamantie so it doesn’t look like I’ve entirely given up.

The dusty lingerie shop delivered and I spent yesterday sashaying about with my menopause apron tidily tucked in. It felt awesome.

I am officially a big undies person now.

No word yet on the youngest’s hip injury, but it has been comprehensively scanned.

Song of the day: Mental as Anything “The nips are getting bigger”

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