Chapter 2: Cotton, Confidence, and Canceled Dates
So there I was again—single, fabulous, and standing in front of my full-length mirror doing what I do best after every failed relationship: admiring how damn good I look in my big black granny panties.
I struck a pose.
Then another.
Then I turned to the side like I was on the cover of some fancy magazine.
Yep. Still flawless.
Pere had been the first one to go. He didn't say much when we parted ways—just gave me that fake smile men use when they're trying not to admit you've broken their brain. "It's not you," he said. Classic move. Broke up with me but still wanted credit for being a decent guy.
Ebi lasted a little longer—three months and a weekend trip to Atlanta—but even he couldn't handle the truth: I wasn't changing my underwear style to make anyone feel more manly.
Honestly? It was becoming a pattern.
I called my girl Wari later that week while folding laundry, which is basically my version of therapy.
"So let me get this straight," she said, voice dripping with sass. "You broke up with Ebi… over panties?"
"Not just any panties," I corrected her. "My panties."
She snorted. "Girl, you need your own reality show."
I laughed, but deep down, I wasn't joking. Why shouldn't there be a show about real women who love themselves exactly as they are—including what they wear under their jeans?
Because here's the thing: these panties weren't just about comfort. They were about choice. About owning who I am at forty-two without apology. Thick thighs, soft curves, stretch marks, wisdom lines, and all.
And yes, if a man couldn't handle that—or worse, tried to shame me for it—then he wasn't worth my time.
Later that night, I slipped into bed wearing my favorite pair (the ones with the tiny rose embroidery along the waistband). I pulled the covers up, stared at the ceiling, and smiled.
Two manfriends down. One hundred and twenty-seven days since my last kiss. Zero regrets.
Because real confidence doesn't come from a partner telling you you're beautiful.
It comes from looking in the mirror and knowing it yourself—even when your man doesn't make it past your waistband.
And somewhere out there, the right one will see me in my big black granny panties and won't flinch.
He'll smile.
Maybe even reach for my hand.
And whisper, "Damn, woman. You look good in everything."
Until then, I'll keep folding my laundry—and loving myself exactly as I am.