The Curious Case of Panty Sizing

Once upon a year, Cherie’s mama decided it was time for Cherie to get new underwear because she (Cherie) haven’t been lingerie shopping in what seemed like an eternity (3 years). Much to her daughter’s dismay.

She wanted to know if there was to be any development down there, and by that she meant hip size. She was well aware of Cherie’s upward progress, though said daughter had always insisted on buying vacuum packed sports bras from Uniqlo.

Why not? They stretched to fit all, lasted forever and flattened the top out enough to discourage unwanted attention. A stretch-to-fit also stopped mothers from buying heaps of wired bras that seemed to dent and bend out of shape within the first three months.

Daughter preferred her sister’s hand-me-downs, flattered by the fact that her measurements were comparable to her relatively petite sister. She had always been a tad self conscious of her ribcage, if that was what a normal teenage girl with low self esteem should be ashamed of. Mainly, she took in second hands because it negated the hassle of changing in and out of lingerie. She didn’t like shopping for clothing much because of all the first (sometimes second) layer stripping, much less to her birthday suit.

Cherie had successfully evaded the horrifying ordeal of having her chest measured in the not-so-comfortable premises of the lingerie section of the shopping mall for years but nature had been cruel to curse her to run from two pieces of undergarments for life.

Her mother had been merciful.

‘We’ll just get boxed panties this time round.’ She said.

It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

Like hell, actually.

So there Cherie was again, in the lingerie section; A rare sight. Normally she’d avert her eyes like a 12 year old boy going through puberty as she walked past. Actually, you shouldn’t be able to find her on this level at all.

But Cherie had been feeling rather confident that day, decked out in her favourite (of five) white tank top and short demin shorts. A box of panties? Bring it on.

She went straight to the panty section, ignoring the pieces of loose (not in boxes as she wanted) fabric on sale. Even with slashed prices, she thought those panties cost too much. Mother had bought her those before. $13 a piece, and she had accidentally ripped them with a frayed nail. Seamless, they’d called it.

Muttering to herself, she waited for mother to catch up to her as she flipped through the boxes. Solid colours or pastel? She decided that pastel would be easier to match her wardrobe.

Waving a box at her mother victoriously, she grinned, happy how this trip was over so quickly but mother tsked.

‘You need to select your size, dear.’ Her tone was clipped as if she was fighting to stop herself from cussing her daughter out for not being able to do something as simple as buying her own underwear properly.

‘Oh.’ Was all Cherie said as she said as she pulled the offensive fabric from its box and stretched it at her hips.

‘This seems to fit alright.’ She said quickly.

‘Really?’ Mother seemed mildly impressed that her daughter was aware of how to size her own underwear.

‘What size are they?’ She inquired, no doubt waiting to jump on the only opportunity to start buying her daughter lifetime supplies of lingerie and whatnot.

Cherie grimanced and flipped the box around. ‘What do you think ‘EL’ stands for?’
‘Extra large?’ Mother chimed as she looked through a nearby rack of what looked like cover-all granny panties.
Cherie stared back. The sudden realisation was appalling. No -it was mortifying. She had one been on the heavier side of the asian scale once, which had ultimately led to her dislike in shopping. She thought she was finally done with those days of sizing demoralisation when she could finally fit into her first ‘medium’ and now it has come back to haunt her in the form of extra large panties.
She hasn’t been a particularly nice person through the years, but karma had been so poetic this time round, she could have cried.

She felt her stomach drop and she peered down to check if her hip bones were still there. They were. So what the hell was going on?!

‘You don’t look like an extra large to me, though.’ Mother glanced at her behind. ‘What brand is this?’

Flipping the box to the front, both mother and daughter scrutinised the box.
‘Young Hearts’ it read ‘Suitable for ages 15-17.’

She was twenty this year. She gaped while mother resisted the urge to laugh and left momentarily to joke with the sales lady.

She honestly didn’t know what was worst. The fact that she had the hips of a 17 year old or the fact that she had no booty whatsoever.

If she was in the booty games, she would have no game whatsoever.

‘I have good news.’ Mother came back and she attempted to smile.

‘Those are on offer. We should get two boxes.’ Her smile flatten.

‘Choose another box.’ Mother urged. ‘You never buy these anyway. Might as well get more.’

She couldn’t argue with that so she stiffly flipped through the boxes, all the while with her head whispering ‘Kiddy panties’ into her ear.

Now two boxes of panties -one solid and one pastel coloured- sits on her dresser. Again, she doesn’t know what’s worst. The fact that there will be days that she would have to wear fire engine red panties with an ‘Extra Large’ tag sticking out on her bum, or that her lower half had not matured (much) the past few years.

On the plus side, she can now face out a few pairs of hideously stripped knickers (with bras to match) her mother bought her three years ago.

She was convinced thay if she had actually liked a real life boy, those knickers would have been the cause of her dormant sex life, not that she felt lingerie had anything to do with keeping a boy -it’s not like underwear is the first thing they look at Boobs are. It’s not like they can actually see it till they get to the bedroom, if they make it to the bedroom.

Either way, she now has a lifetime supply of panties, since she’d never be able to tear it -it being such durable stretchy fabric- even if she tried.

She could go a week with only solid colours and a week in pastel without doing the laundry, not to be gross or anything.
But that is that and the tri-annual panty shop is finally over. She can only hope that when she is 23, she would have progressed somehow.




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