Dear Lingerie, We Need To Talk.

Dear Lingerie,

We need to talk. You’ve probably seen this coming since approximately four days after my honeymoon ended (eleven years and four children ago). Truth be told, I should have ended our relationship the day my mom stumbled upon you while helping me move into my first home with my new husband. Your lack of substance and abundance of sheer material was just what a newly wed twenty-three year old girl wants her mom to see. Except not.

I’ve kept you on the hook for over a decade now, thinking I would eventually need you. But I found you sadly tucked away in the corner of my closet this week. I imagine you were hoping to see the light of day at some point, but that day just never came.

Which is why it’s time for us to break up.

My husband (you guys met when I first got married, remember?) was out of town, and I decided it was time to clean out my closet to get rid of his grubby t-shirts and, consequently, figure out what to do with you. He would probably find you irresistible, so with him away hunting, I figured it was a safe time for you and me to chat.

The problem is we have a lot of some memories together. My best friends set me up with you, and truthfully, I had no idea they thought I’d like someone so raunchy. Some of your friends have such class and taste, but you…you…let’s just say I wanted to die when my mother found out about you. Even so, we spent some magical nights together. You remember.

So when I found you in the deepest corner of my closet (where my husband would never find out about you), I held out hope that our reunion would be a happy one.

But my hope was quickly diminished when I remembered how small you are. Ugh. I would like to believe I would look as amazing in you today as I did so many years ago. Back then, I ran everyday and didn’t eat after 6 pm for an entire year to prepare for you. Not much has changed except I have not run at all in an entire year, and I consume approximately 4,537 calories after 6 pm.

Because I am as delusional as I am hungry, I figured I would give you a whirl anyway. Call me optimistic. All I can say is that I made a wise decision to wait until my husband was out of town because there are some things one can’t unsee. Like the way your fabric held on for dear life as I clasped you shut. If fabric could communicate, I imagine it would have been screaming in terror. I would not know for certain because I nearly lost consciousness from the inability to actually breathe.

With what little oxygen I had left in my throat, as my lungs were collapsing and unable to assist in the breathing process, I looked in the mirror. Which was a mistake. Big mistake. Huge.

To call it a muffin top would be an understatement.
It was more like a tutu of shame.

Never before have I been so remorseful of all of those cupcakes, Doritos, and pizzas I’ve eaten over the years.

YOU! You are the one that makes me feel this way. My yoga pants and t-shirts talk so sweetly to me. Not you. No, no, no…you are so annoying with all of your “perhaps you should eat a vegetable sometime” and “you used to love running” jibber jabber.

Which is the reason we need to break up.

Sure, you were fun for awhile. You brought my husband so much joy. I suppose I could go up a size or three, but the truth is I now have kids to feed…kids that were made just fine without you (ahem!)…and their well-being is a bit more important than you right now.

Speaking of kids, you might have noticed I have a few boys. And while you and I both know that Victoria has no secrets left, I would like to protect my boys as best I can and maintain some decency as the matriarch of my family…and would prefer not to scar my children forever. You have to understand.

There’s just one small problem: what do I do with you??

I suppose that’s why I’ve held on to you for so long. You just have nowhere else to go. I can’t give you to my friends. Even though they’re responsible for you in the first place. They have enough trouble dealing with their own version of you as it is. I can’t donate you. Because GROSS, and I don’t my local thrift store finding out about us. They would never look at me the same. Unfortunately, those four children you are, in no way, responsible for produced enough diapers to fill six landfills. So throwing you away seems wasteful.

I mean, it’s not like I hate you. You aren’t inherently evil. You’re barely there, quite literally. It’s just I’m kinda over you.

When we first met, I had all the time in the world. I could fumble with your sixteen closures and your feathered boas. But now? My children would have knocked on my door thirty-seven times by the time you were even ready for our rendezvous. I could see us working out if I just had the time for you. But I don’t.

You know what I do have time for?? Texting. I have time to text my husband, something that didn’t even exist the last time we hung out. {Insert shameless plug for my guest post over at the Happy Home Fairy! Spoiler alert: I might be wearing a bikini.}
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I have time squeeze in a quickie when my kids are zombies watching a television show.
I have time to stay up a little later when my husband confuses me wanting night time snuggles for me wanting to jump his bones.
I don’t have time for much else.
If we are speaking truth here, I don’t think he much cares for you anyway. I kinda suspect he’s an “end goal” type of guy and how he gets there is pretty much irrelevant.

I don’t see us being together for the foreseeable future, so that’s why I am ending things with you. I am sorry that you have nowhere to go. And I am sorry that it has to end this way. I, too, thought you’d be an important part of my marriage. I guess that’s what I get for watching so many romantic movies when I should have been studying in college.

Perhaps one day we will reunite. When my children are grown, of course. Perhaps they will stumble upon you while visiting for Christmas. You may still scar them for life, but by that time, they will secretly be impressed that their mom and dad still get it on. (And then they will vomit for secretly thinking this.)

I am getting a little wordy in my break up. My apologies. You can imagine my husband finds my abundance of words delightful, especially during “nighttime snuggles”.

So I will end this lengthy break-up the way all good break-ups should:
It’s not you. It’s me.


P.S. It actually IS you, you judgemental jerk, but I am letting you save face. Because it’s almost wedding season, and I don’t want to hurt your chances of landing a new bride with her flawless spray tan and non-stretchmarked stomach. You’re welcome.


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