My huge underpants

Pre-surgery, I think I used to call them panties. That word no longer suffices to describe my undergarments. I hear "panties" and I think dainty and pretty. No, I wear underpants.

There was a short time when I tried to wear pretty little panties post-surgery, but I can't stand the feeling of my bag not being totally contained in a strong cotton weave. Unless it's all packed inside, gas will inevitably bulge over the top of low-riding underwear. Plus, little panties just aren't strong enough to keep my poopy bundle packed tight against me. Not that I like it super tight, but tight enough so that say, 200mL of soupy poop will be squished out somewhat evenly rather than accumulated in a clearly visibly lump-in-my-pants at the bottom of the bag.

I've slowly come to embrace and love the granny underpants I wear. My underwear drawer is filled with no less than 20, maybe 30 pairs, mostly black, but a few white ones too. Apparently, offering brilliantly-coloured or super-cute choices to consumers of this type of underwear is not a priority for the designers (yes, designers of Elita, I'm talkin' to you).

Of course, I had to get over the stigma of granny underpants. Not traditionally cool, not traditionally sexy, I've had to make them my own. It was a couple years before I could stand in front of a full length mirror and like the way I looked in them; I've even built up enough confidence to look at myself in my granny underwear and think: nice.

Now naked is a different story. I'm not sure there will ever be a day where I'll walk nude past a mirror and think my god, you sure wear that bag of shite well girl! work it! Who knows though, it has only been four years.