I finally opened the last pack of three “Barely There” underwear I had bought in 2010 in the US; I didn’t really know what I had been saving them for, but I do remember how good they felt—smooth, weightless, snug.

 

Yes, snug, even on the battle sites around the lower body, especially at the waist and upper thighs, stretching imperceptibly to accommodate the larger than the standard Large, the size I refuse for the life of me to go beyond, for beyond lies the point of no return—the X territories and then Kingdom Come!

 

It’s simply amazing how those stretch bands are able to hold their ground against any pressure—implosion, gravity, anything. They keep you in decent yet comfortable enough shape whatever position you take. Even when you’re sitting down and all excess collects around the belly, Barely There dams it all in place.

 

Indeed, I’m rediscovering the joys my personal hoards of the good stuff, apart from Barely There, brings; they definitely more than justify their price. Besides, when else do I enjoy them?

 

The urgency came to me when I woke up from a nap in the living-room La-Z-Boy after the 10 o’clock news—yes, the nap comedian George Burns told us about in case one still needed yet a sure sign if one had gotten old, the nap one succumbs to before sleeping.

 

I rose to turn off the Christmas lights, but turned off the air-conditioner instead.

 

In fact, in my case, there have been enough disturbing signs. I’ve been leaving my cell phone behind too often, which I thought bad enough until I left home without the handbag that contained it. Of course, I got the usual exaggerated eye-rolling and head-shaking from Vergel.

 

But the other day he had no excuse himself: Both of us stood inside the inert elevator for a while, neither one of us remembering to press the G button to make it go.

 

Comfort over everything

 

Ah, time does fly whether you’re having fun or not, so might as well find enjoyment where you can find it, and sometimes it’s right here among your untouched hoards. Alas, with the enjoyment comes some heartbreak, such as that brought by my now discolored French laced bras, outgrown and outlasted.

 

I’ve found it particularly hard to part with the sexy nighties. I like seeing them in my closet, if only for the memories. They still look new despite fairly extensive use. Of course, even if they were still usable, the days would be too cold to risk wearing them, though the real risk is probably looking ridiculous.

 

Some of the magic may yet be there, but any distraction, let alone an unsightly one, does not help. Well-outgrown nighties are definitely in that category, but so are those virginal white cottons from “Downton Abbey” that fit only a Lady Mary.

 

I’ve settled for a long red cotton T-shirt, a Valentine gift from widowed cousin Ninit, who, judging by her gifts, seems turning naughtier as she ages. Written big across the chest are the initials VS, my husband’s own initials, although actually intended for Victoria’s Secret.

 

The T-shirt is banking more on brand reputation than anything else; at any rate, it’s as daring as I can go without endangering my health.

 

I must confess to a strong tendency to choose comfort over everything, even at work, which, after all, we both do from home—specifically, from our living room, just a few steps outside our bedroom, from which we emerge hardly presentable to the public.

 

Our living room is where we watch TV, read and write, not too far from where we eat, wearing the same working clothes, which my gentleman grandfather, who wore slippers only in the bedroom, would never have approved.

 

Classy lady

 

I suppose comfort and enjoyment of the finer things in life can go hand in hand as well. As I’ve said, now’s the time to enjoy the hoards, so we, both coffee drinkers, are thinking of bringing out our collection of English demitasse, but we may still choose to not dress up for it.

 

I know someone who did something of the sort long before I even thought of it—Inday, a really classy lady I have always admired and kept a deep affection for. It had occurred to her, too, perhaps prematurely by my standards, that it was time. She told her well-trained staff to put away the everyday tableware and bring out the English china, the heavy silverware, and the long-stemmed glasses—for everyday use.

 

One day, Inday was having friends over for an impromptu lunch. She called home to alert her staff and discuss the menu. When they arrived, she was aghast to see her retired china, glasses and utensils on the table. Not wanting to embarrass anyone, she did not confront her staff until her guests had gone. The head maid replied that they knew better than to have guests use their everyday ware.

 

“Yung pang araw-araw, Ma’am? May bisita ho kayo, eh. Siempre ilalabas namin yung nakatago.”