I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what makes me feel sexy.

When I was in high school, it was all about tight acid-wash jeans, cross-color t-shirts, and large bamboo earrings. My undergarments consisted almost entirely of whatever my mom picked up. I couldn’t be bothered.

College, on the other hand, was an experiment in polar opposites: two dollar hooker vs hobo chic. On one end of the spectrum were nauseatingly loud tube tops and leggings from 5-7-9—scarcely a natural fiber in sight.




On the other end were oversized hoodies (where I publicly declared fidelity to everything from NWA to Bart Simpson), flannel shirts, baggy jeans, and Timberlands*. Think TLC gone badass.

Around this time was my epoch of self-discovery and lingerie. My first foray into the world of lace and frills was an epic disaster where I found myself twirling around JC Penny’s dressing room like a dog chasing its tail while disparately clawing at the clasp on the Wonder Bra restricting my circulation.

Sweet manna from heaven! Some guy wrenched me from Lucifer’s grasp just as I was losing consciousness. For my own chagrins in the retelling of this fable I’ll cast him as a saintly store clerk though in reality he was probably just some perv passing by. Who cares! I lived to see another day.

Soon after marriage, I discovered dressing up in the boudoir was fun! I purchased everything I saw. My closet looked like a props department. Fortunately I came to my senses, and keep it simple both in and out of the bedroom.


Now, in the bedroom, a pair of retro varsity shorts, a tank top or a tee stolen from the hubby, and knee/thigh high tube socks does quite nicely.

Uber sexy—no fuss.

*Hey! Take a gander at the dank fashions lurking in your past before questioning my taste…or lack thereof. :)