Last week, I drove my husband's car to run some errands alone, a rare and much-appreciated occasion around my neck of the woods. So, when I went to pop the groceries in the back seat, I found these:
So I just left them there, you know, the underwear that is not mine, because, well, ew, I was not going to pick them up. And because I was sure that my husband has a very good reason for having underwear that is not mine in the backseat.
And if he didn't, well I kind of felt bad for whoever is wearing those, or was wearing those.
If you want a girl who wears those big panties, then have it it, mister.
Though based on their current state, they must have had some rip-roaring fun.
Get it? Rip?
I didn't think much about it again until Shannon (aka Mr. Lady) tweeted this:
And then I decided to take a picture of them, and ask my husband about them, and well, let's just say that it was made clear that I have Post Partum Panty syndrome, as identified by the five well-documented stages:
Yep. They're mine people. All mine.
Though they say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. (And heading straight for Victoria's Secret where they should offer you a no-questions-asked trade in program).
My name is Kristen. And I used to wear gigantic maternity underpants.