These are my pants.

I don’t mean they’re an old pair of pants.

I mean they are an ACTUAL pair of pants, that I put on my ACTUAL body on a weekly basis. Just stick a pant-liner over the holes and you’re good to go! is my philosophy.

I have no idea why I have these holes in my pants, in this particular area, across nearly ALL pairs. My pubic hair is NOT made of wire wool. Honest. The only other holes exist at the sides where a thumb has gone through on an occasional pair as I’ve over-enthusiastically hauled them up after a wee – but the REST of the pants seem to be able to maintain structural integrity.

So these gusset holes are frankly a mystery.

It COULD, mind, have something – possibly – to do with the fact they are probably older than at least one of my children. But I cannot be sure.

I do not, I hasten to add, wear these pants when I see BoyNotQuiteOnTheNetherEdge. I do have SOME standards left.

Unfortunately for BNQOTNE, though, the pants reserved for his edification are not exactly silky and lacy wisps of lingerie, either. In fact when I left a pair behind the other day he – quite rudely – informed me he was using them as a second duvet. It has started to get a bit nippy…

I think in my head I’m thinking I’m going for the 1950s swimsuit look.

In reality I’m achieving the enormous Granny-knickers look.

You see, I struggle with pants.

I have a permanent mum pouch which no amount of sit-ups is going to smooth out, and which looks like it’s still got a joey in it after a medium-sized meal. The pant options are therefore twofold: UNDER the pouch, which means knicker elastic or itchy lace over my c-section scars WHICH IS AGONY LIKE I CANNOT EXPLAIN TO YOU, or OVER the pouch, which means quite a good deal of material is required.

In fact it’s not just lace on the c-section scars. It’s lace ANYWHERE that makes me itch. So does elastic, in large quantities, too. And there’s no point in matching sets, because my bras have to be made by pioneering scaffolding engineers and cost an arm and an absolute leg – and I’m not forking out another £20 on top of that for a piece of floss and bunting with an that won’t support a bloody panty-liner. And then need handwashing. WHO HAS TIME TO HANDWASH PANTS???

Which all leaves me in Pant Limbo.

What I really need is a Pants Intervention. I know this, because I was once the lucky subject of The Great Pyjama Intervention of c2013.

This was staged by three school friends who (pre pandemic) I would see several times a year for couple of nights. Having seen me for several years in a row in the same pair of faded Christmas pj bottoms and an old airtex t-shirt that used to belong to my mum – but with the collar roughly chopped off as it got in my way – my friends had had ENOUGH. I was duly frog-marched to M&S, and STRONGLY ENCOURAGED to purchase new, non-bobbly pyjamas, without comedy skiing penguins on them, and which had not been self-altered with a pair of kids’ safety scissors.

[These same friends clubbed together after I lost 3 stone during my divorce and had nothing to wear and no money to buy anything to send me M&S vouchers. And since then I have always associated M&S with love. And no, this is not a sponsored post. And yes, these wonderful pants – through the magic of stretch and the idiosyncrasies of my washing/drying/shrinking skills – have stayed with me throughout my dress size rollercoaster].

Pants Intervention. It’s the only way.

Because I will not buy new pants myself.

Yes, pants are hard, and comfort is king. But it’s more than that.

These pants are… friends. These pants are easy. These pants have never let me down. They don’t ride up. They don’t dig in. These pants have been a reliable and consistent presence in my life for pretty much as long as I can remember clearly – when life itself WAS pants. These pants have been there for me.These pants ARE me, slightly faded, a bit stained, and falling apart at the seams.

So The Boy is right – these pants ARE a comfort blanket.

And it may, may, possibly, just, nearly – be time to let them go. Sniff. (But not the pants. That’s gross).

So here is to crap, comfy, comfort pants.

Here’s to good old M&S.

Here’s to sweating the small stuff when the big stuff is too big. Bigger even than my pants.

Here’s to wonderful friends, who I haven’t seen in far too long.

Here’s to holding onto things, and routines, and the familiar, for a bit too long, too.

Here’s to letting go and trying something new. Even if it is only a Full Brief Cotton Five Pack.

And here’s to anyone planning to buy me a Christmas present… I need M&S vouchers, and an escort to make sure I don’t get distracted by Per Una.

Xxx