Just Say No to Granny Panties.

I have a love hate relationship with lingerie. Most of my lingerie sits unused and forgotten, shoved to the back of my underwear drawer. The days of sheer nighties and red mesh ensembles (with tassels) are long gone. And no, I did not buy the red mesh ensemble for myself, it was a bridal shower gift.

The downhill slide started when I got pregnant with baby #1. After a year of chasing my husband around the house, trying to seduce him into forgetting the main reason I wanted to get him into the sac was so we could make a baby (which is hot the first month, but loses its appeal around month five), I was tired of thongs, push up bras and butt floss. Add to that, once I was pregnant, I was seriously bloated, my boobs hurt like nobody's business, and my focus changed from sex kitten to being 100% comfortable as this alien being took over my body.

Enter cotton jockeys and sports bras. Uniboob be damned, I did not care if these shapeless undergarments left me with no support and looking like a lumpy bag of potatoes. I was no longer interested in sex, I'd gotten what I wanted, and for all I cared, my poor husband could sit and rot for the next nine months. Once baby #1 was born, it didn't get any better, in fact it went from bad to worse. Granny panties and nursing bras became a mainstay. I had a brief foray back into the world of lingerie when I went back to work and wanted to conceive baby #2, but just like the previous time, once I had my way with Scott, the thongs were tossed asunder.

Well, I have news for you (and Scott will be pleased to hear this). I am done with making babies. I am also done with the shapeless underwear. My lovely friend Kelly, upon hearing that I was going bra shopping after three years in nursing bras, hooked me up with 14 sets of bras and panties - a wonderful variety of colours, laciness, raciness, and sex appeal. Kelly works for the underwear division for a major clothing company, so she gets nice discounts and even better - first dibs on sample sales (which is where she scored my gitch). What's really funny is that each pair of underwear have the word "sample" stamped across the crotch. I have a feeling Scott will be taking that as a verb and not a noun. But I'm not wearing them for Scott, I'm wearing them for me. While I'm sure he enjoys me modeling my new wardrobe of lingerie for him every morning before work, what I like the most is that wearing beautiful lingerie makes me feel like a million bucks. It makes me walk a little taller and adds a strut to my step. So when you see me, and you think to yourself "my, she looks fabulous", know that it is because my underwear is killer. And yes, Scott is a lucky man.