Why I Don't Wear Knickers Anymore

There are some subjects women reach midlife and realise we’ve never really spoken about properly. Not in public, anyway. Knickers are one of them. They sit quietly at the bottom of drawers, bought in hope, tolerated in practice, rarely questioned — until one day you notice you’re spending an unreasonable amount of mental energy adjusting, enduring, or resenting your underwear.

This isn’t a dramatic story. It’s a small, domestic one. But like many midlife realisations, it turns out to be surprisingly freeing.

When you decide to wear knickers, you’re immediately confronted with choice. Too much choice, really. Entire walls of it. All making confident claims.

High-cut? Possibly, but No. My legs are short and wide enough without visual assistance. The illusion that high cut makes your legs look longer is pure fantasy.

Low-cut? Possible, but only if I intend to remain upright and emotionally composed for the duration of the day.

Then there are the shorts, the full brief, the midi brief — each promising comfort, invisibility, or a quiet reinvention of self, and delivering something… adjacent.

Like most women, I’ve tried most of them. The shorts are unexpectedly warm. Reassuring in winter. Slightly oppressive by mid-afternoon. The midi brief is actually rather nice and, looks a bit less old. I don’t know why I equate full briefs with old age. I just do. Probably absorbed it somewhere between magazine columns and changing room mirrors.

And yet.

The truth is that my favourite, without competition, is a full brief in a comfortable fabric. Predictable. Loyal and although "full" they sit just below my belly button. Knickers that stay where they’re put and don’t require checking in every time I stand up.

They suit my life perfectly.

I work in healthcare, which means most days are spent in leggings and tunics — practical, forgiving, non-negotiable. Weekends are casual: jeans, wide-leg trousers (which I am cautiously trusting again), and I love a good dress. All of these coexist beautifully with a full brief. No digging. No wandering. No quiet rage building by lunchtime.

This is not a failure of imagination. This is useful data!

A brief interlude in M&S

Marks & Spencer deserves its own paragraph, because this is where optimism goes to lie down.

There is something uniquely humbling about wandering around M&S clutching a multipack of knickers, carefully folded so the size 16 doesn’t face outwards like a warning label. You hover. You browse. You pretend you’re just looking while holding three packs, none of which you genuinely believe will change your life.

The lighting is unforgiving. The mirrors are honest in a way that borders on rude. Elastic is stretched between fingers with the same cautious hope usually reserved for avocados.

You choose sensible. You add one wildcard pair — a colour, a cut, a version of yourself you are quietly optimistic about. You queue calmly, like this is all perfectly normal.

The beautiful lie in the drawer

I do, however, own a thong.

It lives in the drawer with a matching bra. It has lived there for a very long time. It is unworn. It almost certainly no longer fits. But it is beautiful.

It represents a version of me I don’t entirely dismiss. Experience suggests the scenario is probably fantasy rather than forecast — my dating history has been fairly clear on that point. Still, optimism has a habit of hanging about, even when the evidence is thin. The thong stays. Not because it’s likely to be needed, but because it isn’t doing any harm where it is.

Colour, confidence, and the safe lane

I love colour. Truly. In theory.

My sensible head goes straight to black and neutrals, but I also own an equal pile of bright colours and everything in between — just in case I wake up bold, carefree, or possessed by someone who makes daring underwear choices before coffee.

Invariably, I stay in the safe lane.

I counted my knickers recently. Seventy-two pairs.

Seventy-two.

I counted twice, because surely not. And yet — I’m still buying more. I collect knickers the way some people collect towels or bedlinen. I admire them. I believe they will solve something. I enjoy the idea of them.

But the inconvenient truth is this:

no knickers at all is still the most comfortable and freeing option of all.

All that choice. All that fabric. All that contemplation.

And the answer, most days, is simply… none.