They call me “Old Faithful.” It’s the kind of person that I am. My friends tuck me away in the back corner of the middle drawer — easily accessible, yet easily hidden. Clearly, they’re embarrassed of me or don’t think that much of me. I am never there, or invited to be there, when they are having fun because they don’t need me then. At that point, when they are having the time of their lives, they are satisfied with whom they have around them. Naturally, I have things to do and other friends to hang out with, but I would like to be there (sometimes). I am only dragged out when no one else is willing to play. I am stuck with the gross jobs. I am the “Granny Panty” of friends. I am worn on long flights and ugly days, as a last resort.
By definition, a granny panty is one Victoria calls every time someone tells her secrets or the one Betsey calls every time she has found a new Johnson. We are the ones to be pushed to the side and treated as second-rate friends, except in a moment of need.
As a granny panty I recognize my kind, and thus I bond with others who are similar to myself. We form a friendship based on the fact that we are both pitiable. We are overcompensating for our own insecurities and hype our friendship up to such great heights that others see us as the cool group of friends, the lacy thongs. The tables are now turned and my friendship creates an air of exclusivity. Now, my gang of granny panties is able to choose who is a member of our new band of sexy ladies; one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Naturally, this does not satisfy me. I know it should. I should count my blessings and be thankful for the great gals I have in my life. But, in the back of my mind I know I am still someone’s icky undergarments.
I am tired of being the granny panty. I am tired of only being called to pick up a certain friend when she is skizzered on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. I am so over being called to “hang out” only when her other friends have ditched her. I want to be invited to go clubbing and shopping. I want to be pulled out of the drawer first, with the pretty lacy things. Not crinkled in the corner — waiting for her next messy breakup.
But at the very least, I can recognize myself as a granny panty; I am not in denial. I acknowledge that my group of friends and I initially bonded over the fact that we were frequently ditched, or kicked to the curb. I am not a naive lady who looks blankly in the mirror trying to convince herself, “she would so be there for me,” because she wouldn’t. So what’s a girl to do?
Firstly, understand that people will use you, if you let them. Second, acknowledge that it is OK not to be best friends with everyone. And lastly, go through all 1,200 of your Facebook “friends” and ask yourself what makes each one of those people unique and beautiful.
If you cannot think of a reason why your “friends” are unique or beautiful, and if you cannot remember who they are, delete them. Or at least acknowledge that they are not your real friends (this method can also be applied to your phone contacts and followers on Twitter).
My grandfather always told me, “Baby, the best thing about friends is that you choose them.” Thus, if you give someone the privilege to be your friend and they treat you like a second-rate citizen, let them go. Have the courage to find new friends, and band together with people who love and respect you.
We are all unique and have things to offer in a friendship and to ourselves. There are boy-shorts who are secure in their femininity and embrace the appeal of androgyny. And even my personal favorite, the lacy “cheekies” are a blend of support, beauty and rationality. No matter the style, everyone can embrace his or her own individual flair and purpose in a relationship.
Individuals and roles change and grow, so who cares if you are a granny panty? Find those people that will make you feel lacy and fabulous.