Pants are what we need to talk about today.
Regular readers will know that I am a woman of firm opinions when it comes to pants.
I have spoken, at length, about the need for comfy pants. You can read about it here.
In said post I opined that pants did not need to be seductive. They needed to be comfortable (and possibly lucky).
I said that if a man wanted to have his wicked way with you it wouldn’t matter if your pants were made of spider eyelashes and cat spit, he would still attempt to board you vigorously, with hot blooded RAWR on his mind.
If he disdains you with a wave of his foppish hand, even your very best, heady, come hither pants would have no effect on him whatsoever.
I still believe this to be the case.
I have sacrificed sex appeal for a life of comfort and ease in the pant department for many a long year.
My friend Gina disagrees with my willingness to lie down and surrender to the granny pant syndrome.
She believes in both a stout pant, but also a sexy pant.
She feels that for too long the world of comfortable pant design has been at the mercy of grandmothers and people like the woefully chintzy Cath Kidston.
Not that there is anything wrong with Cath Kidston, or indeed, grandmothers, but you do not want to conjure them in your nether regions when you have hot, animalistic lust on your mind.
Or if you do, then there are specialist magazines out there that cater for people of your sort, and we can do nothing else to help you here.
Gina believes that the word sexy is not necessarily synonymous with the word brief.
Sexy, to Gina, is not picking your nylon thong out of your arse crack nine hundred times a day.
She has a point.
Sexy, to Gina, is not going commando – like Nancy Reagan used to (so I heard). And again with the specialist magazines if you find the idea of Nancy Reagan going for gold in the lack of undercracker department sexy.
She believes that it is possible to radiate allure, whilst secretly thinking:
‘Goodness me, these pants are blinking comfy aren’t they? It’s like sitting in a very ergonomically designed chair for my bottom.’
I want to believe her. It sounds to me, like a pant fairy tale come true.
And now Gina is claiming to be the fairy godmother of pants…
So much is Gina of the belief that we need to reclaim stout pants and make them sexy, that she has put her money where her mouth is and come up with this:
That stands, by the way, for Sexy Big Pants.
She has launched a collection of five pairs of
(under)cracking pants that provide both ample coverage for the bottom cleavage, and yet which do not make you shudder with horror – or think of summer fetes and bunting.
They are the sort of pants where, if you had an accident where all your clothes except your pants fell off and everyone saw you – say in Tesco, you would still wave and shout ‘coo ee’ to people rather than dive head first into the frozen peas in shame.
They are the sort of pants you wouldn’t be mortified to be seduced in.
Yet they are also the sort of pants you could lounge about in, eating Hob Nobs and having a laissez faire attitude to crumbs in.
She has sent me a pair to road test:
Say ‘Hello Dolly’ (see what I did there? – Barbara Streisand would have rocked these pants in her younger day. I do not like to think about her pants now – thank you)
I also have a pair of Daphne on order which I have purchased with my own hard earned money:
I am waiting for Daphne – much like Velma in Scooby Doo in a tight situation with a possible zombie invasion on the horizon – with hope and a little bit of anxiety.
I have already road tested Dolly and found that she is, indeed, all that Gina promised me in the way of pant coverage. It is entirely possible to do star jumps in these pants and remain relaxed and confident.
I shall draw a veil over the nature of their sexual allure – but Jason and I celebrated nine years of being together this weekend, and we did not play knock out whist and put the kettle on for a soothing cup of chamomile.
Just so you know.