Chapter 5: Panty Panic in the Pines
I should've checked my suitcase three times like I always do.
But this time, caught up in last-minute packing and the chaos of work deadlines, I zipped it shut with a proud little nod—thinking everything was perfectly in place. Clothes? Check. Toiletries? Check. Big black granny panties (the only kind worth wearing)? …Well.
That's where it all went wrong.
I was heading down South to visit my cousin Shantel for her big wedding weekend. It was supposed to be a fun getaway—cotton dresses, sweet tea, and me looking flawless in my usual full-coverage glory. But somewhere between folding my favorite floral skirts and tossing in my hair oils, I forgot the most important thing:
My bag of granny panties.
Not just one pair.
A whole bag of them.
Like, "I'm-a-woman-who-knows-how-to-pack" levels of preparedness… except not.
It wasn't until I got settled into the guest room, tired from travel and ready to slip into something comfortable, that I opened my suitcase and froze.
Empty drawer.
Empty heart.
"Nooo," I whispered, digging through like maybe they'd magically reappeared or joined a witness protection program.
But no.
There were my T-shirts, my bras, even my socks.
But not a single pair of my beloved high-waisted cotton warriors.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the suitcase like it had personally betrayed me.
"No, no, no, no, NO."
I screamed—not loud enough to wake the neighbors, but hard enough that Shantel came running down the hall thinking I'd seen a spider the size of Texas.
"What?! What happened?!"
"I FORGOT MY PANTIES," I wailed, clutching my chest like I'd been stabbed.
She blinked. "…You can borrow some."
"They won't be the same!" I cried dramatically, because she didn't understand. Nobody did.
So, desperate and slightly unhinged, I dragged myself to the local boutique the next morning, praying to the fashion gods that maybe—just maybe —they carried my style.
Spoiler: They didn't.
The store was cute, filled with lace, satin, and thongs so skimpy they looked like they belonged on a Victoria's Secret runway, not on an actual woman with hips and feelings.
I approached the counter, trying to sound calm and collected. "Hey, do you have any high-waisted, full-coverage black cotton panties?"
The saleswoman gave me a look like I'd asked if they sold petticoats and corsets.
"Uh… we carry more of the… uh, modern styles," she said slowly, gesturing toward a display of thongs with rhinestone G-strings.
I felt my soul leave my body.
Back at Shantel's house, I stood in front of the mirror in just a robe, trying to mentally prepare myself for what I was about to do.
Wear borrowed underwear.
Hers were cute, sure—mid-rise, soft, decent fit—but still. Not mine.
And as I pulled them on, I felt like I was betraying myself.
They didn't hug my waist the same. They didn't lift where they needed to lift. And worst of all?
They rode up like they were trying to escape a sinking ship.
By the second day, I was walking around like I had a wedgie that only God could fix.
By the third day, I considered driving two hours to the nearest Target just to buy something familiar.
And by the fourth day, I made a silent vow:
Never again.
From now on, I check my bags three times before leaving.
I pack emergency panties in my purse.
I even start carrying a backup pair in my glove compartment.
Because life without your granny panties is not a life I ever want to live again.
And when I finally got back home, I ran to my drawer like I was greeting a long-lost lover.
Tears in my eyes.
Cotton in my hands.
And peace in my heart.
Because I was home.
And covered.