Chapter 9: The HA HA Moment
I was lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket like I was trying to disappear into it, scrolling through my tablet with no real purpose. Work had been another slow-motion disaster — more smirks, more whispers, more pretending I didn't feel like a ghost walking around in someone else's skin.
I wasn't looking for salvation.
Hell, I wasn't even looking for anything at all.
But then came the commercial.
It started soft — just a beat of drums and the sound of wind brushing across skin. Then came the women.
First, an elder with deep tribal marks carved into her cheeks like ancient poetry. She stood tall, eyes unblinking, wearing a flowing dress that matched the colors of the earth. Next, a younger woman with vitiligo, her skin a beautiful blend of light and dark, dancing barefoot in sunlight like she owned it. Then came a girl in a wheelchair, glitter on her face and fire in her voice as she spoke a truth I needed to hear:
"We are not broken. We are not too much. We are not here to shrink."
And then… there she was.
A young woman, maybe twenty-one at most, standing in front of a mirror, hands on her hips, lips painted bold red, hair wrapped in a silk scarf — and underneath it all? Granny panties.
Plain. Cotton. Ruffles. Proud.
She looked directly into the camera and said, "This is me. Not for your comfort. Not for your approval. Just me."
And something inside me snapped — not in a bad way, but like a rubber band finally letting go after being stretched too far.
I sat up straight.
Heart pounding.
Eyes wide.
HA HA.
Not a laugh.
Not a cry.
An awakening.
How many times had I let other people's shame make me forget who I was?
How many days had I spent hating what once brought me joy?
How many nights had I cried over panties — yes, panties — because they had become more than fabric, more than fashion? They were a symbol. A legacy. My armor. My rebellion.
And now, here was this girl on my screen — young, fearless, cotton-clad — reminding me that I wasn't alone. That I never had been.
I reached into my drawer.
Pulled out my black lace-trimmed pair.
Then the red roses.
Then the pink polka dots.
I laid them all out like a declaration.
The next morning, I woke up early. Put on my favorite set — the faded ones Grandma gave me. Dressed like I meant business. Walked into work like I hadn't been hiding for weeks.
Lisa smirked. Marcus raised an eyebrow. Someone muttered something under their breath.
I smiled.
Not because they were right.
But because I knew they never could be.
I was done apologizing for my joy. Done blaming my love for granny panties for the pain others caused me. This wasn't a curse.
It was a blessing.
And I was ready to wear it again — proudly, loudly, beautifully.