In the last year, I've dropped some weight, picked some back up, and dropped it again. Somewhere in the mix, I've learned to love me for who I am. I've found that I am in that blurry place of being able to shop in both the mainstream girl and the curvy girl stores. I've taken full advantage of that and made some lacy purchases at both Lane Bryant AND Victoria's Secret. One of the Vicky's purchases was some sleek, seamless black panties. They made me feel sleek and sexy. I loved how they felt when the cloth of my clothes slid over them, and they fact that they were black showed off my alabaster skin.
I tell you that to tell you this:
Let me set the stage for you. I'm three days into my visit from Mother Nature. It's about 10:45 in the morning, and I have to pee for the third time since 8:00. Add to that, I'm on a call with a customer that Just Will Not Shut Up. I'm doing an animated pee pee dance in my chair. My co-workers started to get the idea they'd better find high ground for the next 40 days and 40 nights if I didn't find a way to end this call soon. The moment the call was over, I stood up and rushed down the hall to the ladies' room. Were this an animated movie, you could insert cartoon cackle and flourish of bobby pins here.
Have you ever taken a shit that left you wondering if your pants will fit better, and a half smile of content on your face? This was the piss equivalent. One empty bladder, and a satisfied sigh of relief later, and am working on pulling up my drawers. I have no idea why I was doing it in this manner, but I apparently had my thumbs through the leg holes, pulling on them as I stood up. Remember the seamless panties we spoke about earlier? I was wearing them that day.
Did you know that they're called seamless panties because they're not held together with stitches? Were you aware they're fashioned with magic, and use the energy from 1000 bulimics vomiting to weave them? Or that, apparently, washing them in anything other than the tears of a virgin lamb causes structural degradation? Neither did I. This knowledge becomes apparent in a hurry though.
As I'm pulling these bloomers up over my rump, I get to where I should be able to stop pulling. Except, one hand stops when they can go no higher, the other keeps on going. Along with my right hand continuing towards my ear, I hear an audible sound of fabric separating. Much like when you snag a stocking, it's a very distinct sound.
Oh. Shit. As I look down, I have half a pair of functioning panties. The left, to be exact. The right side was just two flaps that had completely come apart as I was re-dressing my bits. In that moment, I stood there, hands still in the position they were when I realized the problem, contemplating what to do about my bare pubis mons staring at me like a fat kid failing at hide and seek. Quick mental algebra told me, ditch 'em. What choice did I have?
As an aside, I seem to remember wondering if it would be the right kind of trouble to leave them on the very top layer of the trash in the restroom.
I slink back to my desk and put my headset back on, just sure that the entire world just knew. It was 20 minutes later that I realized "Oh! Silly fatass! Commando is for people with motivation.". In that moment, I remembered I had skipped going to the gym the night before, but had left my gym bag in the car. Huzzah! Laziness to the rescue!
I slithered off to the parking garage after lunch. I popped the hatch on the car and rooted around in my bag to find the ersatz panties. I fished them out and stuffed them into my pocket, gave the unblinking security camera a wink, and strutted back across the street. One quick to the restroom, and I was properly covered once again. Knowing me, I would have had a tussle with a zipper had I not had that spare pair. Being shark week and all, I could imagine a horrifying tribute to "Something About Mary". Let's face it, in that fight, the zipper wins. I may have had my panties cut off me once already, but I'd like to request if my pants are, it not be done by an ER doc trying to free my labia from zipper teeth. I don't think it's too much to ask.
The moral of the story is be kind to your under things. They have the ability to put you in an uncomfortable spot. Oh, and skipping going to the gym might save your pride!