Thursday, September 9, 2010

I see London I see France, where'd your Mom buy those hideous underpants?






Question: I've had an embarrassing situation where a (guy/girl/family/group of people/audience) saw my UNDERPANTS. How do I handle it?


Answer (s):


Hide.


Bury the embarrassment deep down until you take it out during a social function when you're on your 2nd martini.


Throw your 401K money into 15 years of therapy.




What did you think I was going to say? Wear them as a hat? My situation happened way too long ago to be considered emotional scarring, but I'm dramatic, so I still talk about it (when my girlfriends dare me to drink the boxed wine).


If my grandmother buys me the underwear of the week at some point I'll never be able to post that. So you get a cartoon instead.






Before I officially start, we are going to stick to the terms: bloomies, underpants, and underoos. No  amount of money will ever get me to say: panties. I just CANNOT go there. (I sorta just did, but I mean in the grand scheme of my life, I never can mutter it.) You could submit your financial dare, we'll leave it at that.


I don't have this man's waiver signed just yet so I'm unable to use his real name. Let's just say it's something along the lines of Anthony Spumatto. (The name doesn't really affect the story. Feel free to sub in with your evil-doer such as: Matt, Brian, or Bob).

William Zabka, the bully of the 80s. Nope, he wasn't my bully, but for some reason I still want him to pull up in his car and offer me a ride. 


It was first grade. I have fuzzy memories of that year. There are some highlights- like petting a white rabbit for the first time and eating powdered cheese balls. (Obviously not at my house). Those two things actually happened on the same day. I'm sure first graders now have cellphones, boyfriends, and order out sushi for lunch...life was simpler back in 19XX.


We'll probably find out in the next 10 years that if women didn't ingest these 'they' (smart people) would have been able to develop that new cream so we'd never have to shave our legs again.



It was right after lunch and we had just come off the playground. Sweaty, flushed faces and dirt under our fingernails from throwing gravel at each other in the church parking lot. Being in catholic school meant we should be orderly, quiet, and in our seats. That rarely happened.

Disheveled from the twisting and pulling during the game of tag and really--the combination of rayon and polyester? I'm obviously not writing this in my latest Diane Von Muchodollar wrap dress but the uniform I wore for 8 years didn't help my hive situation.

We're all settling into our afternoon routing of stealing each other's crayons (black was the favorite because then you could outline all of your drawings). No one ever wanted to share the black crayon for fear of losing the pointy'ness'. It was quite the gamble to give it away and get it back all rounded and flat. Luckily the rich kids had their boxes of 64 and would let me borrow burnt cyan.

This is artistic, but honestly that pink crayon would stress me out. Who used so much of it?



Our teacher is calling us up one by one. Mrs. Marinara (no, not her real name but it rhymes, I'm Italian, and I'm hungry so...there you go) is yelling about the chaos. My name is called and I head towards the front of the room. I was handed back my phonics workbook and Mrs. M. wasn't happy that even though my work was correct, I colored all of the pictures yellow. And I'll add that I didn't even bother to stay in the lines. A bit outside of my o.c.d. personality. I would say that this was my first move at sarcasm but I nailed that personality trait the day I sashayed out of my mother's womb (we'll get to that later).

I gave Mrs. Marinara the hair eyeball (or eye roll) and explained that if I got all of my answers right-is it really important to color the tree and pineapple to perfection? Really? With a huff the book was dropped into my hand and I swiveled around to head back to my seat.

OK so here's where UNDERWEAR comes in. All tangents aside.


It was like it happened in slow motion. If I could give the slow motion a parallel I would pick ESPN plays of the week.  Hey! I was in first grade, these moments all happened in slow motion.

I'm walking back to my desk and about five yards into my stride I hit something. My left foot fumbled, my hands went up, and I lost my grip on my perfectly wrapped contact covered phonics book. I was going down for the count.

Our uniforms weren't so flamboyant, but other than the awesome position, this was me about to flip over.


 My foot hit something because I'm pretty sure my body did a perfect ice skater's twist in the air--except it wasn't perfect at all. My white shirt untucked itself from my ironed pleated skirt and I let out a gasp as I hit the dark green brown carpeting with a thud. My skirt, always so perfectly at my knees was now around my waist and EVERYONE was staring at me. I'm pretty sure in that moment-time stopped and all students at Saint Francis found a way to turn their eyeballs into supersonic eyeballs that burned through three layers of concrete, asbestos, linoleum tiles and really harsh unflattering ceiling lights to see 


ME-laying on the floor with my underwear exposed.

MY UNDERWEAR. OUT in the OPEN for everyone.

As I'm writing this I'm sure there have been at least 500 girls somewhere in the world on spring break that have voluntarily taken off their tops, and bottoms, and are parading around naked. Sigh. One day those girls will be stripper grandmas.

I'm laying on the smelly first grade carpet, frozen in time.  Anthony Spumatto got his glance, tucked his tripping foot back under his desk, and like everyone else in class, went back to coloring and post recess sweating. 

I never wore that pair again. Thank god it wasn't my wonder woman, spiderman, or incredible hulk garments. OR maybe if I was wearing my super underoos I would've been able to jump up kung fu style to dole out a serious wedgie that would have given me cool status for the next 7 years at St. Francis.


Ok, I get it. Nothing would've increased my cool status at Saint Francis. My MOTHER worked there. But that my friends, is for another story.

I have a feeling if they brought these back, people at work would start flashing. Not a pretty sight. And maybe I just realized I work with a bunch of potential flashers.










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