Forced into Retirement by Granny Panties

I told family and friends I wanted to focus on my writing career—and that is the truth.

I said I wanted to be home for my ten-year-old so I could do more hands on parenting—also the truth.

I told them the meager pension didn’t matter because I was going to have a string of bestsellers and become fantastically rich—also the truth.

However, I didn’t tell them the rest of the story, as Paul Harvey would say. I didn’t tell them about the granny panties.

There comes a time in a woman’s life when her undergarments morph from sexy to utilitarian, from Victoria’s Secret to “Oh my God, did you see that.” I came to that point a few months ago and I asked myself why I should bother? Life had lost the shiny, silky, part of its meaning. If I had to wear “orthopedic” panties I wouldn’t wear any at all.

There is a rule in State civil service that reads something like this:

Employees shall endeavor at all times, except in officially declared states of emergency, to keep their behinds fully covered. Failure to do so may result in corrective action.

So you see, I had to retire.

We writers have a saying--if you want to write you’ve got to “put ass in chair.” Mine is free and unfettered and in the chair daily around nine as soon as I get the Juju Monster off to school. I got rid of my 38DDDs, too. Now I write in a series of color coded teddies—Yes, Virginia, there is a Lane Bryant—red hot red for Mondays, fuchsia for Tuesdays, Lemon meringue for Wednesdays. You get the picture.

Writing has never been so much fun. And, for some strange reason, my love life has never been better.