You guys, you guys, the internet was invented for the story that I’m about to tell you. It’s not all that climactic, and it’s not all that thought-provoking, but it is completely and utterly inane and involves my butt, and therefore belongs on the blogosphere.
It began yesterday morning when I was getting dressed in our freezing bedroom. Even though it’s April, I still find myself a perpetual icicle. Taylor has demanded that we start turning down the heaters to save money. I just wait until he isn’t looking and then crank them back to Equator-like temperatures. It’s all very passive-aggressive, but I have to give Taylor something to complain about so he doesn’t make up crazy stories about how I have to sort all of our dishes by size, color, and shape before I can wash them.
If he tells you that, it’s a lie, by the way.
Anyway, so I’m standing there in the bedroom staring morosely at the same pair of grey trousers that I wear four out of five days of the week. They’re not really unstylish, per se. They’re just…I don’t know, maybe a bit frumpy. I got them from Ross for a tasty fifteen dollars, and they are beginning to develop some little threads around the edges and some wrinkles where there should not be wrinkles. They don’t do a lot to make me feel like a fabulous female. Staring at myself in the mirror, I decided to do something drastic.
Today, I told myself, I am going to wear sexy underpants.
This is a big deal for me. Taylor can tell you my underpants are about as sexy as snot on the sidewalk. I have a pair of underwear, you guys, that I have literally had since the seventh grade. They are full of holes and fit bafflingly well. In a sort of rebellion against my terrible underpants, Taylor went shopping and bought me several pairs of panties that he deemed ‘stylish’, and you know what? They totally were. There was a little brown pair with polkadots, and a pair of pac-man boyshorts, and a white pair with a little dangly metal heart and pretty paisley black flowers. It was this pair that I decided to wear this morning, as a sort of sexy secret that I could keep for the rest of the day. I slid them on, admired myself, wondered if it was supposed to be attractive that they only covered like half of my buttcheeks, and decided that it apparently was. I finished getting ready and I headed off to work.
The office, as per the usual, was busy. This weekend is National Open House Weekend (it is like a holiday for realtors, in the same way that Lent is so much fun) and we have a total of seven homes being hosted. I’ve spent much of the last week looking like an apoplectic pug as I rush through my work, frantically writing ads and editing photos. People slow down and stare as they pass by my office, listening as I mumble feverishly to myself. “Three bedrooms three large bedrooms detached new carpet two acres three acres? Two acres.”
After a few hours of this, I stood to go get a cup of water, and then it happened.
My sexy underwear, in a renegade act of spite, migrated quickly and permanently up my butt.
This was not just a wedgie. This was an act of God. My underwear behaved in a manner contrary to science, ethics, and the basic tenets of the American Constitution. There was internal bleeding. I immediately feared a heart attack, because of the panties that were suddenly clogging my arteries. My eyes crossed, I lost my breath, and my boss came into my office to discuss the flyers for this weekend.
Trying hard to blink the tears out of my eyes, I listened and took notes, willing her to vanish for just a moment so I could readjust. After our conversation, she handed me a packet of papers and asked me to deliver it to the front. I did, doing the Wedgie Walk the whole way, jigging in the hope that my underwear would take mercy on me and retreat. On the way back, our buyer’s agent asked me to run out front and drop a letter in the mailbox. I did, praying with every step that I wasn’t about to hemorrhage and collapse in a bloody pile on the floor. The paramedics would arrive too late, and look at my sad, be-wedgied body and sigh. “Happens every time,” they’d say, and lean on each other for comfort while the new guy ran outside to throw up.
Wow, a real tendency towards the morbid in my blog posts lately. Sorry about that. Must be the weather.
Anyway, I was finally able to remedy the situation when I got back to my office with a quick waddle and tug, and felt instantly better.
This happened no less than four times that morning, with varying results. Somehow, though, when I left to come home for lunch, it didn’t occur to me to merely remove the offending garment and replace it with something a little less violent. Instead, I ate a sandwich, watched the latest South Park episode, and skipped merrily back to work. Tum-ta-da, life’s okay.
That afternoon, unsurprisingly, things were no better. After the third wedgie I was standing in my office, contemplating my options. I could just take the underwear off. Maybe that was the best plan. Just go commando for the rest of the day. Only a few more hours, that’s not too bad. It’d be vaguely uncomfortable, but probably a lot better than the whole Spanish Inquisition going on up my buttcrack. It was decided. The underwear had to go. I made a beeline for the restroom, and I could feel (with the theme from Jaws swelling in my mind) the wedgie creeping. This was a bad one. I could already tell. This was the Armageddon of wedgies. There would be no coming back from this.
Moments away from the restroom door, I was blindsided by a question from our office manager. We talked for ten minutes, every second the pain growing greater, just feet from salvation. It was all unbearable. Finally, the office manager squinted at me.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Me? S-sure. Fine. Great. Utterly magnanimous.”
“Because you’ve got like…there’s a weird expression on your face,” she said, trying to duplicate my grimace. I laughed unnaturally.
“No! HA! HahahaHA. NO. I’m just excited about this weekend. Weekeeeeend! You know how it is.” I chummily socked her in the elbow. She raised her eyebrows at me.
“It’s Thursday,” she said.
“I know,” I replied. “I’m that excited.”
We regarded each other in silence.
“Yaaaaaaaay.” I added.
“Well, come with me to your office. I need to work on the network connections back there,” she said.
Morosely, I followed her. I didn’t get another chance to go to the restroom, not for the rest of that day, and when I got home that evening I had barely pecked Taylor on the cheek before I swept into the bedroom and changed clothes.
I have learned my lesson. Sexy underwear is for the adventurous only. From now on, I’ll stick with my torn-up granny panties and Hanes 5-Paks. The whole thing was too traumatic to attempt repeating, and I’m no glutton for punishment.
There. Don’t you feel enriched for knowing my story? The blogosphere: truly a strange and wondrous place.