And it was all thanks to those chocolate brown underwear.

Printed pants, H&M. Chunky peep toe heels, Vagabond. Plain grey t-shirt, Monki.

Say hello to my crazy pants! My boyfriend hates pants like these - which naturally makes me even more keen on wearing them, to make sure he knows he can't tell me what to wear! He can't help it, though - he's from a small town and I'm not sure he'd admit it, but I'm fairly certain he thinks all girls look best in blue jeans and a t-shirt. No shame in that, as long as he's fine with me wearing whatever I want. (And he is. He just hates the pants. And I'm fine with that.)

Ooops, that sounded a little bit mean, I know. And it's not like I don't care what he thinks about my outfits - I do want him to think I look nice - it's just that I'm so done with trying to change for someone else. I spent most of my teenage years (and then some) trying to dress the way I thought the guys I liked would prefer, and, well, that never worked out. I bet you're not too surprised if I tell you I've written a column about this very subject, haha! What can I say - I've written close to two hundred columns during the last three years, which means I've crossed quite a few topics off my list by now.

If you care to read my freely translated version of that column, please go on. If you don't - close your eyes, quickly!

His gaze lingered for a second, somewhere below my neck, and then he spoke. 

"Brown looks great on you", he said.

It was late autumn and he had stopped by. He sometimes did that.

Months had passed since he'd stood in the doorway of Maja's party with his tangled Kurt Cobain locks and I just knew: that's him. He's the one I've been waiting for. I can't blow this, no way, this is going to happen. Him, me. Us. It has to.

Summer then, almost winter now, and it still had not happened. Him, me, us. But he did stop by sometimes. So I stayed awake, until two, three, holding my breath while waiting for my cell to beep: Are you asleep? Or can I stop by?

Most nights, my phone stayed quiet. But I never went to sleep. Just in case. 

I'm never alseep. Of course you can stop by.

You can always stop by.

And this particular night, he did. I was wearing a brown v-neck sweater, bought on sale, 50% off. We were lying on my couch, half asleep, half awake, and that's when he said: brown looks great on you.

I felt like he'd said he loved me.

Not even twelve hours later I'd spent that month's last food money on a bra with matching panties. Guess what color they were.

The next time he stopped by, I was ready: all of my private parts enshrouded in chocolate brown lace and silk underneath my cotton dress.

I'm not sure what I'd expected. I probably realized some brown fabric wasn't going to make him look deeply into my eyes and declare that I was all he'd ever wished for. But something, anything, a sign that the nightly visits meant more to him than just a place to crash.

Nothing like that appeared, not that night, not the next. But he kept stopping by. And then one morning he came back from the grocery store with three cartons of milk and said: "the cashier asked if I was thirsty, so I told him my girl is making a whole lot of pancakes."

He said that.

Mygirlmygirlmygirlmygirlmygirlmygirlmygirl.

I made the pancakes, we ate them with strawberry jam, and it had happened. Him, me. Us. Six months since I'd looked up and seen him standing in that doorway, six months since I'd put my blue drink (that tasted way too much like nail polish remover) down on the floor, my heart beating so hard I could hear it over the music, and thought that's-him-he's-the-one-I've-been-waiting-for. Six months since I'd realized we belonged together, and now he'd realized it, too. And it was all thanks to those chocolate brown underwear. I just knew it.

Just like, a year later, I knew it would end.

I came out of the shower, we were going out, I was walking around the apartment in my lucky underwear when he asked me: "do you really have to wear those? They sort of make you look like an old maid, you know, the kind who never got married and who lives alone at the outskirts of a tiny village with her fifteen cats."

I really thought he was the one I'd been waiting for. Well, it was an honest mistake.

Six years later, I live at the outskirts of a tiny village. I'm definitely thinking of getting a cat or two* - I love them, and so does the guy I'm hoping to marry one day. I'm not sure what colors he thinks look good on me, but he does claim I'm all he's ever wished for.

I sleep very well at night.

*This column was published last summer, we've only had the cats since January!