I have some hang-ups about my undergarments. Not only do I find it crucial (oh so crucial) that the girls are supported to the best of their ability through the feats of modern technology (show me some gas-powered shocks and struts for the fun bags and I will show you a Nobel Peace Prize winner), but this doesn't mean that I neglect the action on the bottom half either. The panties have to be pretty and match. Otherwise, I am certain that I will accidentally walk through a shower of cotton-dissolving petrochemical, which will cause my outer layer of clothing to fall into a heap at my feet. Of course, this will happen when I am walking through a crowded area, like perhaps the Rose Bowl Parade or--through a strange bit of teleportation and time travel--the stage of my own high school graduation. Then four or five major network news teams will converge upon me (Fox News will be busy up the street interviewing a person dressed as a taco and will miss everything), and then my grandmother will see a picture of me on her television screen as the bottom crawl says, "Fat Woman Bursts Out Of Own Clothing: Obesity Epidemic Looms" and I will be standing there in a pink bra and a pair of red, white and blue panties decorated with anchors and that will kill my grandma dead, those anchors and the clashing colors. Dead.

Oh, I have the cuteness, believe me. I have at least a dozen bras that can only be worn with a particular pair of panties and another dozen whose bottoms wore out or got lost in the dryer (or were claimed by souvenir seekers). But this is a necessary risk that gives me the security I need during these uncertain times. But sometimes, on days that involve, say, a clingy jersey dress or the pair of boot-cut trousers that seems to cause every pair of cheeky panties to ride right up to the motherland? Those are the days when reinforcements are required.

Sometimes I wear granny panties.

So there it is. Like Bridget Jones, I know that sometimes we must put aside our vanity and take one for the team. If my gut is looking a little sleek, it's because I might have some steel belted foundation under there, and you know what? It looks good. Show me a thong that can suck in my gut! You can't because the unicorns were wearing them when they swam to Atlantis.

I refuse to live in shame any longer. I will march proudly in the Granny Pantie Pride Parade. Fly your Spanx high and free, ladies, and have no more shame, for the day of the Granny Pantie is upon us. And for that, I offer this evidence. My case rests. --Weetabix