There’s a Hole in my Camel Toe!

Will the Mormons see the light?

Thanks to Sherry McGuinn for the prompt. She posted a story about how since the pandemic began, there’s a hole in her favourite pair of pants and she doesn’t give a darn.

So, do you, like me, find your standards slipping? Even a little bit? If so, I, and certainly many in this fine community would love to hear about it. We can bolster each other up. Remind each other to stay hygienically-safe and sanitized. Because we’re still human beings, right? RIGHT?

“What’s the hole in your pants?” she asks.

Like Sherry, I have a favourite pair of pants. They are the sort we call “trakkie daks” here in Australia, but they are known as sweatpants or joggers elsewhere.

You know the sort. Soft fleecy fabric. Baggy, stretchy, drawstring at the waist, warm in winter — which it is in Australia right now— and fabulously comfortable round-the-house wear.

I’ve had them for years because they are so insanely comfy, and with the iso, I can’t see the point of getting dressed in clothes that other people might actually look at. Even for Zoom meetings, nobody sees anything below waist level, right?

Brush your hair, put on some lippy, wear a nice top, but down below it’s the wrong side of the tracks. With Ugg Boots.

Fix your eyes on this spot

My tracksuit bottoms are grey with a white fleece interior. The problem is that there is a seam that runs along the middle of the two leg sections, and on what I can only describe as the point of my crotch, the grey fabric has worn off and the white underneath shows through, inevitably drawing the eye to what would be my camel toe region if my pants were tight enough for such a thing, which they are not because I think I’ve mentioned the comfort factor several times already.

Still, it’s not the best spot to have a highlight of white showing through the slate grey. Worse yet, in the dead centre of the garment, where four seams meet in the middle just below my fundamental female orifice, there’s a hole in the fabric.

Not big enough to stick a finger through — or anything else, thank you! — it’s there, and it inevitably grows a little with each cycle of wear and wash and dry.

This is probably the last winter I get to wear my ever-so-comfy clobber. I could lie to myself and say that I’ll just wear them to bed when I’m all by myself, but on weekends the difference between sleepwear and housewear is sometimes non-existent, and before you know it, you’re opening the door to the Mormons and they are politely trying to ignore the fact that you’re basically wearing rags.

While they are in buttoned-down clothes with padlocked-down undergarment beneath and looking you fiercely in the eye for fear of immodest thoughts.

Like Sherry, I keep my house clean and moderately tidy. Not OCD tidy, but not cluttered and not a dump. I know where my things are, and there’s no moss growing on them. Dust bunnies under the bed, maybe.

But no way am I going to wear my best clothes when I have no intention of stepping outside. Sometimes when I have a friend for a sleepover, I might wear nothing at all. If a woman cannot be comfortable in the privacy of her own house, then what’s the meaning of life?

Size 42, I hear you say

When this isolation thing began, I think we all had visions of police patrolling the streets and arresting anybody they caught outside, so best make sure that there’s a month’s worth of food in the pantry, all full of protein and calories and fat to sustain life for an extended period.

It turned out to be not quite that strict, but still, can’t let all that tucker go to waste.

My next big delivery is likely to be an exercise bike. I’ll sign for it in my holey duds, and then clamber on and destroy any last vestige of modesty with the friction on my increasingly shapely thighs.

Not until spring, though. I’ll make an effort when the days are long enough to count. For sure.

Britni

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