FRENEMY PANTS

in which I moan about control briefs, discover toilet twinning and balk at Kirsty Wark’s carbohydrate avoidance

Last minute dinner invitations don’t often come my way but last week I had a text from my dad asking me to sub my mum at a dinner in the Mayor’s Parlour. Never one to turn down free grub I promptly put Mr MoodyMum on babysitting duties, shaved my armpits, tonged my hair, stuck on some fake lashes and slid a silk dress on over some sturdy control pants and a non-nursing bra. So delighted was I at finally having an opportunity to give my leopard print heels an outing and being in such a rush, I didn’t question my underwear choice.

My stomach has seen better days. I eat too much, exercise too little and have grown two babies in my belly so it’s hardly a surprise. The control brief is therefore my friend. Verging on the miraculous, it transforms my soft, rippling tummy into a firm and smooth surface. These pants give me the confidence to wear my fancy dresses (all bought in sales, mostly for weddings and from a period spanning 1999 – 2012), to show off my figure rather than hide in a muumuu. I don’t get out much but when I do I like to look my best.

Feeling pretty good about myself I arrived at the Mayor’s Parlour with my father and after some unexpectedly continental air kissing the twelve of us settled down to a delightfully fruit themed four course meal. Half way through my duck I was forced to turn down a wine top up. “Are you alright?” muttered my dad, perturbed by my uncharacteristic refusal of more wine “chauffeur duties tonight, is it?” guffawed the RAF guest to my right before spilling a glass of red down his shirt. Alas, my control briefs had turned on me and like the girdles and corsets that came before them they were squeezing my tummy making me feel nauseous and full. Facing the cheeseboard and wincing with disappointment at my underwear choice I excused myself and tottered off to the toilets where I admitted defeat, released the flab and folded the pants over. It was too late for the brie but I was able to resume the wine and port quaffing with a newfound enthusiasm albeit with a wobblier waist.

I will now briefly digress. In the toilets, while breathing a sigh of released relief I noticed a framed picture of an African toilet. The Mayor’s toilet was twinned! An amazing idea which does pretty much what it says on the tin: http://www.toilettwinning.org/

Back to the pants. My friend had become the enemy. I couldn’t believe how stupid I had been. This is not the first time a pair of tummy hugging pants has pooped on my party. A faint whisper of Caitlin Moran crept through my head: “are the boys doing this?” Probably not. I’m not au fait with men’s underwear but I’m pretty sure you won’t find any 30 year old men squeezing their guts into high waisted, constricting boxers. Am I doing the sisterhood a disservice by trying to make my body conform to the ideal female body shape? I don’t think so as my primary concern is to look good for me, I don’t give two hoots what the man thinks. I’m not one for celebrating stretch marks as I don’t like them, in the same way as I dislike my high forehead and wonky fingers, neither of which have any relevance to my gender.

I like my food. I like cooking, baking and eating. Unfortunately I’m too lazy and it’s too cold for me to jog much at the moment. As much as my belly gets me down though I would rather embrace the blubber than live like Kirsty Wark who in a recent interview with the Guardian declared “Baking is relaxing. I make bread, but I don’t eat it myself. I make homemade pasta, but I don’t eat it any more. When you get older, you have to be a bit more careful.” Where is the joy in that?! I can envision Kirsty sat in a posh designer outfit, surrounded by linguine and ciabatta, smugly stroking her toned stomach. She might not need the control briefs but a life without carbohydrates is not a happy one.

In the future, I think I’ll stick to hiding my tummy behind my massive (yet fabulous) bright yellow clutch bag.