Big Girl Panties Quotes

Pull up your big girl panties and just do it.

Dear puss, Is this all you've got? Why don't you strap on your big girl panties and come face me yourself? Unless you fear that the Nixanator will spank Omort's wittle bottom. By the way, you've taken one of the most respected leaders in our army. We're going to want him back. Especially since Sabine can't break him. Bringing it, Nix the Ever-Knowing, Soothsayer Without Equal, General of the New Army of Vertas

I agree with you. Now let’s put on our big-girl panties and go convince Mr. Always Right that he’s seriously wrong.

I look forward to being older, when what you look like becomes less and less an issue and what you are is the point." (As quoted in Put Your Big Girl Panties on and Deal with it, Roz Van Meter, 2007)

I mentally stepped into my Big Girl Socks—the equivalent I’d been given as a kid instead of Big Girl Panties because my dad thought that was a creepy expression. “I’ll

Just a suggestion: When the Devil says, “Let the games begin,” see if you can run in the opposite direction. If not, put on your big girl panties. Someone might die.

But ever since I made the decision to drop a few pounds-way less easy than it sounds, by the way-I've become obsessed with my size and in so doing I've inadvertently allowed my inner critic to have a voice. And you know what? She's a bitch. Like now when I see my underpants in the laundry, I no longer think Soft! Cotton! Sensible! Instead I hear her say Damn, girl, these panties be huge.

Man, my girl is one tough chick when she wants to be. I wonder if it has something to do with those big, comfy granny panties she’s got on.

You gonna put on your big-girl panties and fight with the boys, now?” He looked over his shoulder as if he expected me to blush or something. “Who says I wear panties?” I was certain that he flushed red this time. Laughing, I left him shaking his head and went on inside to find the Kid. We had work to do.

She hadn’t been touched by anyone in almost two years. Now Zeus was climbing all over her like she was Mount Olympus.

Now how about you man the fuck up, put your big girl panties on and go get your fucking ex- girlfriend back.

Pull up your big-girl panties, Gabi.

Dear teenagers complaining about life: You’ve only felt the tip of life’s dick. There’s a lot more to go. Pull your big girl panties up and hold on. It’s gonna be a rough ride. -Words of Wisdom

Had S E X? Sex, you can say it Charlie! Put your big girl panties on and be a grown up, you certainly can’t do it if you can’t even say it.” Bethany winked “And oh my God, what are you waiting for? It’s been over a month. After your five year dry spell, I’d think you’d be ready for some ‘wet weather’.

Put your big girl panties on and be a man!

Well, you're gonna have to put your big girl panties on and deal with it!

See it, identify it, and deal with it.

One is compulsive overeating. In layman’s terms, an addiction to food. Using food and eating to hide from emotion. To fill a void and cope with stress and the problems that occur in everyday life. Compulsive overeaters are most times fully aware that their eating habits aren’t normal but get little support, other than being told to get some willpower and go on a diet. It’s just as damaging to their self-esteem as telling an anorexic to just eat.

...Ever since I made the decision to drop a few pounds—way less easy than it sounds, by the way—I’ve become obsessed with my size, and in so doing I’ve inadvertently allowed my inner critic to have a voice. And you know what? She’s a bitch. Like now when I see my underpants in the laundry, I no longer think Soft! Cotton! Sensible! Instead I hear her say Damn, girl, these panties be huge.” “Your inner critic has terrible grammar.” “I know, it’s the only way I can take away some of her power over me...

Life isn’t a fairytale. Sometimes one has to pull up her big girl panties and get the fuck over it.

I wiped my eyes. Big girl panties. Big girl panties. Big girl panties.

When your mouth overloads your ass, put on your big girl panties and apologize! ©2017 Suzanne Steele

Big girl panties were a bitch to put on some days. But I yanked those proverbial panties up and got to work. Because work was something I could control, something I was actually pretty good at.

Mom, listen to me. Big things like this are scary. They make us think about change, and opportunity. But like you've always told me, that's when we need to put on our big girl panties and meet the moment.

Hudson: Are you text-sulting me from the next room? Put on your big girl panties and stomp your spoiled ass out here if you want to scream at me. All caps aren’t necessary. They don’t do your entitled temper justice.

Ohhhhh." A lush-bodied girl in the prime of her physical beauty. In an ivory georgette-crepe sundress with a halter top that gathers her breasts up in soft undulating folds of the fabric. She's standing with bare legs apart on a New York subway grating. Her blond head is thrown rapturously back as an updraft lifts her full, flaring skirt, exposing white cotton panties. White cotton! The ivory-crepe sundress is floating and filmy as magic. The dress is magic. Without the dress the girl would be female meat, raw and exposed. She's not thinking such a thought! Not her. She's an American girl healthy and clean as a Band-Aid. She's never had a soiled or a sulky thought. She's never had a melancholy thought. She's never had a savage thought. She's never had a desperate thought. She's never had an un-American thought. In the papery-thin sundress she's a nurse with tender hands. A nurse with luscious mouth. Sturdy thighs, bountiful breasts, tiny folds of baby fat at her armpits. She's laughing and squealing like a four year-old as another updraft lifts her skirt. Dimpled knees, a dancer's strong legs. This husky healthy girl. The shoulders, arms, breasts belong to a fully mature woman but the face is a girl's face. Shivering in New York City mid-summer as subway steam lifts her skirt like a lover's quickened breath. "Oh! Ohhhhh." It's nighttime in Manhattan, Lexington Avenue at 51st Street. Yet the white-white lights exude the heat of midday. The goddess of love has been standing like this, legs apart, in spike-heeled white sandals so steep and so tight they've permanently disfigured her smallest toes, for hours. She's been squealing and laughing, her mouth aches. There's a gathering pool of darkness at the back of her head like tarry water. Her scalp and her pubis burn from the morning's peroxide applications. The Girl with No Name. The glaring-white lights focus upon her, upon her alone, blond squealing, blond laughter, blond Venus, blond insomnia, blond smooth-shaven legs apart and blond hands fluttering in a futile effort to keep her skirt from lifting to reveal white cotton American-girl panties and the shadow, just the shadow, of the bleached crotch. "Ohhhhhh." Now she's hugging herself beneath her big bountiful breasts. Her eyelids fluttering. Between the legs, you can trust she's clean. She's not a dirty girl, nothing foreign or exotic. She's an American slash in the flesh. That emptiness. Guaranteed. She's been scooped out, drained clean, no scar tissue to interfere with your pleasure, and no odor. Especially no odor. The Girl with No Name, the girl with no memory. She has not lived long and she will not live long.

If you're willing to roll with the punches, you find you get punched less.

But you know, sometimes not getting what you want is getting exactly what you need.

Please remember that your difficulties do not define you; they simply strengthen your ability to overcome. —Maya Angelou

If you, too, grew up with anxiety messages, realize that you couldn’t ward them off. Your filters weren’t strong enough yet. But now you can.

I wish you a soul sister who helps you tend your boundaries.

Toss off my big-girl panties and just say screw it for once. I

Getting in control of a eating addiction isn't like kicking smoking or drugs or alcohol. Those are addictions that you give up completely, and once you get through the withdrawal you win the war by abstaining. Your battle is so tricky. You're always going to need food. You're going to have to get to a point where you coexist with it and it's not the crutch you fall back on.

Burning—Burning—The world is burning & needs waaater —I’ll have a daughter, oughter, wait & seee— Churning, Churning, Me— Panties—Panties— these ancient fancies are so girling—You’ve not seen mermaids in my actual sea

And what about us?” Catcher asked. Gabriel’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re part of the mystery-solving gang, aren’t you?” Catcher muttered something unflattering, and Mallory nudged him. “I presume you want us to stay here tonight?” she asked. “It would make things easier,” Gabe said. “So we’ll sleep on the couch,” Catcher said, “like we’re twelve-year-olds at a slumber party.” “In fairness,” Ethan said, “we don’t all have to sleep on the couch.” “In fairness,” Catcher said, “you can kiss my ass.” “Ladies,” Mallory said. “Let’s put on our big-girl panties. Merit and Ethan are already sleeping in the bedroom, and there’s no point in making them move. Catcher and I can take the couch. The shifters will feel better if we make this work, and it’s no great loss to any of us.

You did your Oh, poor me, and that’s fine. We all get those sometimes. It’s just that being a victim gets to be a habit. You stay there too long, you get comfortable. Gets to where a victim is who you are. So game-plan it. Put on your big-girl panties and tell me what’re you gonna do.

Tits. Ass. Cock. I know those words, Mason, and I know you think I’m so deeply prissy and vanilla but I’m actually a big girl, so you can go ahead and use them on me.”… “You want it then?” His mutter was raspy and low and his eyes burned so deep into mine I felt paralyzed before he even spoke. “Fine, Taylor,” he whispered, pressing his hand down hard on my thigh. “You walked in here and the first thing I thought of was how goddamned good you looked and how bad I wanted to rip that dress off those perfect tits of yours. I thought about what you’d look like in those boots and those boots alone and it turned me into a fucking crazy person for a second because I had some very real thoughts about grabbing you, taking you home and fucking you on my bed till I could hear those pretty lips screaming my name. does that get the point across or do you want to hear just how hard and deep I imagined my cock inside you.” Holy fuck. Just like that, panties ruined.

Codependence means we are depending on something outside of ourselves to provide our sense of wellbeing and are not being true to ourselves and our own feelings. As long as we keep believing that we can make someone else happy or that someone else has the power to make us happy, we are setting ourselves up for frustration, failure, and possibly victimization.

So Dad was a tedious, well-connected workaholic. But the other thing you need to understand is that Mom was a living wet dream. A former Guess model and Miller Lite girl, she was tall, curvy and gorgeous. At thirty-eight, she had somehow managed to remain ageless and maintained her killer body. She’s five-foot-nine with never-ending legs, generous breasts and full hips that scoop dramatically into her slim waist. People who say Barbie’s proportions are unrealistic obviously never met my stepmother. Her face is pretty too, with long eyelashes, sculpted cheekbones and big, blue eyes that tease and smile at the same time. Her long brown hair rests on her shoulders in thick, tousled layers like in one of those Pantene Pro-V commercials. One memory seared in to my brain from my early teenage years is of Mom parading around the house one evening in nothing but her heels and underwear. I was sitting on the couch in the living room watching TV when a flurry of long limbs and blow-dried hair burst in front of the screen. “Teddy-bear. Do you know where Silvia left the dry cleaning? I’m running late for dinner with the Blackwells and I can’t find my red cocktail dress.” Mom stood before me in matching off-white, La Perla bra and panties and Manolo Blahnik stilettos. Some subtle gold hoop earrings hung from her ears and a tiny bit of mascara on her eye lashes highlighted her sparkling, blue eyes. Aside from the missing dress, she was otherwise ready to go. “I think she left them hanging on the chair next to the other sofa,” I said, trying my best not to gape at Mom’s perfect body. Mom trotted across the room, her heels tocking on the hard wood floor. I watched her slim, sexy back as she lifted the dry cleaning onto the sofa and then bent over to sort through the garments. My eyes followed her long mane of brown hair down to her heart-shaped ass. Her panties stretched tightly across each cheek as she bent further down. “Found it!” She cried, springing back upright, causing her 35Cs to bounce up and down from the sudden motion. They were thrusting proudly off her ribcage and bulging out over the fabric of the balconette bra like two titanic eggs. Her supple skin pushed out over the silk edges. And then she was gone as quickly as she had arrived, her long legs striding back down the hallway.

she wasn’t the type to give a thought to what

I am on the verge of tears because of this declaration and my insides twist knowing how I have truly deceived him. Put on your big-girl panties and get the fuck over it, She says.

Cage gestured to my running leg. “Testing a new leg?” I shook my head. “Underwear.” His brow wrinkled and the guys behind him inched a bit closer, ears perked. “What?” Cage asked. “My favorite underwear has been discontinued. I’m trying a new brand and the best way to test them out is to go for a jog. I want to know before I buy ten pairs if they’re going to ride up on me. I’m not a thong girl. I don’t like anything shoved up my ass.” His cheeks turned red while taking a hard swallow. The fishing crew tried and failed to hide their chuckling. One of the guys slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll meet you out front.” He cleared his throat. “Our condolences on the ass news.” That sparked a new round of laughter as the guys piled onto the elevator. When the doors shut, Cage pursed his lips and sighed. “Thanks for that.” I shrugged. “What?” “What …” It’s possible his intention was to be serious or maybe upset, but he couldn’t finish his thought without rubbing his hand over his mouth to hide his smirk. “You don’t like ‘anything shoved up your ass.’ Really, Lake?” Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he shook his head. “So you’re big into fishing, huh?” “Don’t change the subject.” He narrowed his eyes at me. Too bad he still couldn’t keep a straight face. It would have given his case a lot more merit. Those were favorite moments of mine, when he was ninety percent sure my actions were an embarrassing side effect of my Sahara Desert humor, yet still ten percent holy-shit-she’s-serious. I loved that ten percent. I worked my ass off for that ten percent. “I’m sorry, what was the subject? Oh yeah, things I don’t like in my crack. Sounds like a Jeopardy category or a Family Feud survey. ‘Name something Lake Jones does not like up her crack. Underwear. Survey says? Ding ding ding … ninety-four people surveyed said underwear, the other six said cock. And I do believe those six lascivious idiots are downstairs waiting for you.” Cage observed me; it was never just a stare or a lingering look. His eyes narrowed a fraction, but never lost their sparkle. The wetting of his lips was always followed by biting them together like he refused to speak until he’d figured me out. And just before he spoke, his dimples surrendered to his impending grin. “I’m going to text you an address. Meet me there in three hours.” “What if I haven’t sorted through this underwear situation by then?” My head tilted to the side as my poker face slipped a bit, revealing my own impending grin. “Hmm …” He pulled me to him, his hands easing into the back of my running shorts. “Don’t fret over it,” he whispered before sucking my earlobe into his mouth. My lips parted, and eyes closed, as I held onto his biceps to keep my knees from buckling. “Panties are optional.” Three words and my knees buckled. Thankfully—not really thankful at all—he fisted the back of my new panties and yanked up. My hero? No. The wedgie was underway a few seconds before my knees gave out. I gasped. He smirked. “I think you should consider getting used to the idea—the feeling—of something in that sexy ass of yours.” Not much left me speechless, but my first non-brother-male-induced wedgie left me with cow eyes and a numb tongue. He winked just before the elevator doors shut.

She already knew she would never build up an adequate immunity to his dimples.

I wasn’t saying I was all for being a united front, but it was time to put my big girl panties on and accept the things in my life I couldn’t change.

It was time for me to pull up my big girl panties and become the mother these girls needed in order for them to go down the correct path. My

there are five specific factors that determine fitness; you are in firm possession of four of them.” “Really?” She stopped fidgeting and gave him back her full attention. “Absolutely,” he told her enthusiastically. “The criteria break down into cardiovascular

If you work the program, the program works, Amanda. You know that.” “You

I happened to be wearing my big-girl panties (often referred to as Aunt Flo’s couture)

For fuck’s sake, is old age making you senile? When are you going to grasp that I don’t want or need you to molly coddle me? I’m here to stay, princess, whether you like it or not. So pull up your big girl panties and suck in that lower lip or I’ll give you something to whine about.

My woman intuitions were kicking in and something was telling me to follow Rashard. Something was telling me that something was about to happen tonight and I needed to put on my big girl panties to protect my man.

Sometimes you've got to put your big girl panties on and just do it.

People have often asked me how we girls managed any privacy in a house with so many boys and no private rooms. It was difficult. We used to bathe with a washcloth from a pan of water. We would first start with our necks and faces and wash down as far as possible. Then we would wash the road dust from our feet and wash up as far as possible. Later, when the boys were out of the room, we would wash “possible.” It was these circumstances that led to a very embarrassing mishap that I have told very few people and would not relate here if it were not so funny. We had an outdoor bathroom, and there were times in the middle of the night when it was very inconvenient to dress and go out into the cold just to take a leak. For these times there was a little room, actually a closet, that had in it what was called a “slop jar” or “slop bucket.” It was actually an enameled pot with flared sides that was made to accommodate a woman squatting over it to do her business. The closet had no door as such, just a sort of curtain hung on a tight piece of wire. After dark when the fire had died down, it could afford some kind of privacy at least. One night when I was about sixteen or seventeen, I had been out on a date and got home fairly late. Everybody was already in bed, and I didn’t want to wake them and alert Mama and Daddy to the hour of my homecoming. I was absolutely bustin’ to pee, so I fumbled my way through the dark until I found the curtain to the closet and stepped inside. I dropped my panties and hiked up my skirt and assumed the position over the slop jar. I was feeling relieved in a physical sense and quite grown-up and somewhat smug that I “pulled it off,” so to speak. But suddenly, here in the middle of my little triumph, or more accurately here in the middle of my rump, came the cold nose of an unexpected intruder. A raccoon had gotten into the house, and unbeknownst to me, we were sharing the closet as well as a very intimate moment. When I felt that cold nose on my butt, I screamed bloody murder and literally peed all over myself. Of course I woke the whole house with my unscheduled concert. Daddy grabbed the poker to fend off an intruder. Mama started praying. The little kids cried, and the big kids just ran around confused. When everybody found out what had happened, they all had a good laugh at my expense. Except, of course, the raccoon. Once the lights were turned on, he acted like any man caught in a compromising position with a lady and bolted for the door. I often think of that moment at times when I’m feeling “too big for my britches,” and it tends to have a humbling effect.

Maybe you need some antidote messages to neutralize sappy sweetness, so here goes: • You are the only person entitled to let people in—to your house, your heart, your head, or your bed. (More about that in Chapter Ten.) • You are the one who can protect the Nice Little Girl inside you from intrusive and unhealthy demands, requests, phone calls, Internet, TV, visitors. • You are the woman who can learn to say “no thanks” without feeling guilty. You’ll be surprised at how easy it gets and how calmly most people take it. • You can protect yourself from undue stress, which shortens your life and adds frown lines. • You can decline an order to leap tall buildings in a single bound, even if you think you could. (You can’t, but hey, we’re all entitled to our fantasies.) • You can identify the price of admission to a relationship, job, anything—and then decide whether the show is worth the ticket. Everything has a price of admission, honey. Be careful to get your money’s worth. • You can learn how to build boundaries, like the cowhand builds fences. • You can learn to listen to that little voice inside that says, “This doesn’t fit for me. This hurts.

You’ve probably already discovered that life hands out a big load of lessons to be learned. Sometimes you have to do your homework over and over till you carve away the “obdurate material”—the stony cocoon—by which you have kept yourself in the dark. No one can do it for you. They can only help. Actually, that is the good news. You get to do the work, discover the a-ha’s and reap the joy as you make better and better choices that take care of both your grown-up self and the Little Girl Panty Wearer inside.

Girls’ Night Out Two female friends had gone out drinking, just the girls, and had made excessively close friends with a large but uncertain number of cocktails. Walking home feeling no pain at all, they suddenly both realized they needed to pee. There was no toilet in sight and no open restaurants or anything, but they were passing by a graveyard and one of them suggested they flush their systems there, so they did, fertilizing some unknown person’s final resting place. Of course they had no toilet paper, this fact having slipped their minds in their inebriation. The first woman took off her panties, used them to wipe herself, and tossed them aside. Her friend didn’t want to do the same because she was wearing some fancy underwear and didn’t want to ruin it, but she was lucky enough to find a wreath on a grave with a big ribbon attached and wiped herself with that (after all, the intended recipient had no use for it, or for anything else). After finishing, they made their unsteady way home. The next day one woman’s husband phoned the other husband and said, “You know, we have to talk to our wives about these damned girls’ nights out. When my wife came home last night her panties were missing. I have no idea what she was up to, but it can’t be anything good!” “You think that’s bad,” said the other husband. “My wife came back with a card stuck between the cheeks of her butt that said, ‘From all of the firemen at the fire station, in heartfelt appreciation.

Getting in control of a eating addiction isn't like kicking smoking out drugs or alcohol. Those are addictions that you give up completely, and once you get through the withdrawal you win the war by abstaining. Your battle is so tricky. You're always going to need food. You're going to have to get to a point where you coexist with it and it's not the crutch you fall back on.

I'm the perfect girl. You read about me in Maxim or whatever. I tell dirty jokes like I'm one of the guys, and I'm sitting there in my panties and bra so you can see I'm a piece of ass in the bargain. Except I'm real, so I come with all kinds of complications.

Here are some antidotes, new self-talk from Big Girl you to Little Kid you: • What do you think, honey? • Go for it, babe! [Note: How else could I have written this book?] • Strut your stuff a little. It’s OK. • Of course you can! • You’ll always find a way. • You are so smart and creative! • How do you feel, and what do you need right now? • Does this really fit for you? • Remember, honey, “No thanks” is a complete sentence. • You deserve better than that. I’m not suggesting that you become an insufferable narcissist, thinking no one else is important. But I do urge you to take care of yourself—your needs, self-esteem, and self-respect. Otherwise you’ll look to others to fill in your blanks, which keeps you a dependent diaper-wearer.

I wanted to make her proud, so if that meant putting on my big-girl panties and walking straight into the lion’s den, then so be it.

Good girl. I should only ever be the only man in your damn mind." Fucking hell, that needs to be illegal. Actually, he needs to be illegal because he is a hazard to panties.  Because I was pretty sure they were completely soaked from that growl of his.  "Maybe you should show me why it should be you and only you."  Big fucking mistake.

Anyhow, where was I?” Rayne giggled and winked to the hypnotized members. “My OnlyFans members love it though when my anus prolapses, and my girlfriend proceeds to French kiss and suck on my descending colon. Sometimes, my fans request I eat corn first so my lover can eat it off my prolapse, that always guarantees a big tip from all the fellas, let me tell you!” I enjoy this discussion because it is a kink that I am unaware of. Although I am not really into anal, it does titillate me and causes my pussy to throb some and squirt a little bit of cum into my panties.

Sometimes, fate has other plans for us, and we can fight it kicking and screaming, or we can put our big girl panties on and tackle it head on. Fate’s a lot smarter than we give her credit for.

I have a lot of kinks, Bluebell. Which you’ll get to discover. But rest assured that big panties on beautiful girls with freckles and thick asses is at the top of my list.

put on your big girl panties.

two men made me fall for them. Hard. They both walked away at the same time. And look, I could handle the hit to my pride. I can pull up my big girl panties to deal with the humiliation of that. It’s the blows they dealt to my heart that left me broken. Shattered. I’m like a cartoon statue that’s been hammered. There’s a crack at the impact. The crack spreads into a thousand fractures, until I’m made of a million pieces. There’s a moment in the show when I’m frozen in air that way, and that’s how I’ve been living these past six months—the pieces suspended, waiting to fall. There’s no way to avoid it; the killing blow already happened.

Big girl panties were a bitch to put on some days.

Getting in control of eating addiction isn’t like kicking smoking or drugs or alcohol. Those are addictions that you give up completely, and once you get through the withdrawal you win the war by abstaining. Your battle is so tricky. You’re always going to need food. You’re going to have to get to a point where you coexist with it and it’s not the crutch you fall back on.

If you’re willing to roll with the punches, you find you get punched less.

You’re just a stupid candy bar!” Holly yelled at the Milky Way. The Milky Way sat on the counter, in between the fruit bowl and the journal, an innocent candy bar representing caloric catastrophe. She could almost feel the bananas giving her the evil eye.

Your skirt is tucked up into the back of your panties.

Put Your Big Girl Panties on and Deal With It