By Renae Brabham

Yep, I've broken a lot of youthful, naive promises to myself. I don't mind saying I buy beer and all-cotton panties by the six pack now.

When I was young, I used to make naive, bold, predictions about the future. One was that I would never wear a one-piece bathing suit, and the second was that I would never wear granny panties. Ahem — never say never.

My granny panty aversion dates way back. My Granny would come visit when I was little and all of a sudden there were new clothes to hang on the line. My siblings and I would throw granny's panties at each other while screaming "Oooooh, you touched granny's panties." Eventually, we’d hang them but not before stretching them out a bit. Now, Granny wasn't small to begin with but by the time we got her "drawers" on the line, as she called them, they looked like twin-size fitted sheets.

She ultimately showed us the discreet way to hang ladies’ underwear. First, double them over to half their original size before pinning them to the line. Second, hang a sheet and pin them behind it so no one can see them. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted. You NEVER did a wrong after knowing a right because that was switch picking offense. 

God forbid something happens to me, and my family goes through my dresser to find granny panties.

Through the years, panties continued to be the "butt" of jokes at our house as I watched our kiddos do the “Oooh, granny panties" folding clothes at our table. Our crew was merciless, and no one escaped the fray. I've seen Batman and Spiderman boxers pulled over siblings’ heads. One evening, Don came in from work through the laundry room and paused to pick up what he thought was our son's sling shot and handed it to him. It was our oldest daughter's thong.

I admit, I didn't see the thong fad coming. I was taken aback. I remember thinking I either have to get on board with it or ALL my panties will be granny panties. God forbid something happens to me, and my family goes through my dresser to find granny panties. Quick fix. I kept comfy ones in the back and thongs at the front to give the appearance of jumping the generational "divide."

As a mother of teenage girls, I took offense to the underwear sizing kiosk in stores at the mall. While they shopped, I rearranged them from large to small versus small to large (I may or may not have been caught a time or two) and was certain to get kicked out of the 5-7-9 store if they ventured too far from me. I was clearly double digits.

I fumble with the glove box pulling out coupons, melted candy bars, stale chewing gum... that registration’s here somewhere... and black lace panties.

The panty maladies continued to haunt me through the years. They got me out of a ticket once though. Scene: 80's lunch break from work going to the tanning bed au natural except for black lace high-cut bikini drawers in my glove box. I'm stuck behind a Ford Colt going 20 in a 35 with a double yellow line staring at me. I throw caution to the wind and punch it to go around him. The oncoming car? Highway Patrol. What are the odds? God's honest truth, the patrolman does a U-turn, passes same car, pulls me over and walks to my window BEFORE the dude going 20 drives by. "See?" I explain. "That's why I passed him." Stone-faced and unmoved, he asks for my license and registration.

Well, let me tell you, if I’m stopped by police, I'm guilty of every crime. I’m a drug mule, bank robber, whatever they are looking for, and it shows. I'm a wreck. I fumble with the glove box pulling out coupons, melted candy bars, stale chewing gum... that registration’s here somewhere... and black lace panties. I look up and the officer is now as uncomfortable as I am. Finally, red-faced, he tells me to go. "No more passing on a double yellow," he says. I haven't to this day. 

Yep, I've broken a lot of youthful, naive promises to myself. I don't mind saying I buy beer and all-cotton panties by the six pack now.