grMarko has appointed himself as official guardian of my modesty. Which as you can imagine, is a pretty thankless, fruitless task.
When I was pregnant we used to have huge fights every time we went out to eat because, according to him, I was forever flashing my underpants for the whole world to see. It was very hard not to flash my underpants as not only was it impossible for me to wear any thing other than a dress of tent-like proportions due to my massive girth (which would fit me like a mini skirt), but there was also no way I could cross my legs, not with two heads lodged in my pelvis, effectively ensuring that my legs became virtual strangers to each other towards the end of my gestation.
So we would go out to eat, I would
graciously flop sit down, legs spread two miles apart and in doing so
flash my underpants to who ever was looking. Which usually meant the whole restaurant as they anxiously wondered
whether I would go into labour before or after they had finished their eggs
over easy. I was that huge.
Marko and I have fundamentally differing views when it comes to who gets to see my underpants. To be honest, I couldn’t care less who does. He could care, a lot. And it would irritate him immensely that I kept flashing my bits, even if it was by accident.
I was reminded of this again on Sunday when we went out for lunch with my sister (the Lordy one) and her (lordy) family, and my parents. I decided to dress up and was wearing a skirt, rather than my normal T-shirt and shorts. As I was sitting on my haunches, getting the babies organized on their mat on the floor, I apparently flashed my underpants a little. My nephew said “Aunty Tertia, I can see your panties”. Marko sighed, rolled his eyes and asked if I didn’t perhaps want to show the gentleman at other table in the far corner because he thought perhaps he was the one person who didn’t see my underpants that time.
This as I was trying to balance on my haunches trying to organize both babies, give them their snack, make sure they don’t eat the leaves that had fallen next to their mat etc etc.
So I stood up and said through my teeth “to be perfectly honest, I do not give a continental fuck who sees my underpants” and sat down again to a muffled gasp from my sister. I heard my nephew ask my sister “Mommy, what did aunty Tertia say”. She replied “never mind my boy, I think it was a rude word”.
And really, I don’t give a fuck who sees my underpants. It’s just underpants* for goodness sake. I do try not to flash all and sundry, but if I do, it’s by accident. So bloody what! It’s not as if I am flashing my naked cooter at every one.
And at least it was my good pair of underpants, the ones without the holes.
*I don’t wear thongs, so these are sensible underpants that cover all the strategic bits. Thongs are The Devils Work. Or put another way, a huge bloody pain in the ass. There is no way I am wearing something up my ass all day. Nothankyouverymuch. Granny panties over thongs any day.