Y'all. OMFC, my panties tried to kill me today in Hobby Lobby.
(This should serve as fair warning to any male person who loves me who reads this blog and who doesn't want to read about my panty issues. Panties abound in this post, specifically MY panties, so you might want to look away and go read something about how Alabama can totally take LSU. Or whatever.)
I have this pair of panties that I love. Actually, these panties are (does the word "panties" sound funny to you? Panties. Paaaaanties. And now I'm thinking of John Goodman...)
Panties, right. Okay, so these panties are part of a four pack of cotton, boy-cut panties that are comfy and make my butt look cute and I like them a lot. They are white with blue polka dots and they make me feel all cheeky (ha) and flirty. Not that I'm bouncing around showing them to everybody. I'm just saying: I like my panties.
Well, I likED my panties until today. Right now, I feel absolutely baffled by my panties and a little afraid of them.
It happened in Hobby Lobby--or as I like to call it, "Cracky Lacky," because of all of the crafty, crochet-y, photography proppy mess crammed into it that makes me all dizzy inside--when I was looking for ribbon with which to adorn some CDs I'm sending out to clients. I beebopped through the doors when I realized that...uh...something felt funny in the general vicinity of my Nether Regions.
Do fuh? I thought, giving my jeans a discreet tug, because it didn't occur to me at that point in time that my panties were suddenly possessed by Satan.
I wandered around looking at Christmas and Autumn decorations that were 4000 percent off and not buying them because I'm being all frugal and stuff even though I reeaaaallly wanted to buy them, you know? I was contemplating a wire basket that would look adorable stuffed with a snoozing newborn and then things felt even weirder around my Nether Regions.
"Seriously?" I said out loud to the gorgeous faux-leather suitcases I was coveting. I went into the deserted "Summer Fun" aisle and did some covert explorations and discovered that my panties were...y'all...they were falling down. INSIDE MY PANTS.
How does this even happen?
It isn't because I've lost any weight over the holidays, you can trust me on that. And it isn't because I gained any, either. (Yay, me...) But somehow, my favorite panties decided that maintaining their position below my hips was just not going to happen and they were drifting downward.
I did what any sane person would do, which was stick my hand inside my pants and tug those suckers up. Then I went to go look for ribbon.
I want to point out now that Cracky Lacky is a Christian store and so the Muzak that plays inoffensively while you shop is generally Jahweh-oriented. This doesn't bother me a wee bit, and I get to hum along to songs that I don't hear a lot any more. ("Rock of Ages" is good no matter WHO plays it, ammiright?) I'm telling you this because in a few minutes, things are going to get even more bizarre.
I realized as I made my way through the glassware section that my panties were migrating again and that they had totally parted ways with my ass and were, in fact, dangling around my thighs. I had a moment of panic thinking that maybe they would actually slither out of one pants' leg, because I'm not a Physics major and I forgot that things like the crotch of my panties (errant though they were) and, you know, my torso would keep them relatively in place.
I made it to the ribbon aisle (having broken a sweat in my panty panic) and started looking for the perfect ribbon, but of course I couldn't find the right shade or texture or width and my panties were tickling the backs of my legs. I decided to get down on the ground to look for some ribbons, which turned out to be a DRETFUL idea.
See, women's jeans are not made for ladies who've had babies and declined to lose the baby weight. The inseams are roughly three inches long on all my jeans, which means if I bend down, my panties might occasionally show.
DO YOU SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING??
Yes, my friends, I popped a squat in the fabric section of Cracky Lacky and the entire store got a good look at my butt. I yanked down my sweatshirt and tried to scootch around to somehow encourage my jeans to NOT reveal my hinder parts, but the damage was done. I was trying to decide if I should just go ahead and die of embarrassment with two rolls of organza ribbon in my hands and my butt pretty much dangling out for the entire world to see when "Rock of Ages" went off and "Wade in the Water" came on.
Wade. In. The. Water.
With horn skirls and little bass break aways and other jazzy, Muzak-y things.
It was all too much for me and instead of dying of embarrassment, I started laughing so hard that I was afraid I was going to wet myself (which might have served my damn panties right). The ribbon lady cleared her throat, which I was pretty sure meant, "Honey, take your panty-challenged, hysterical self out of my section" and so I grabbed some ribbon and fled.
Of course, I still wasn't done with my errands, so I went to the grocery store bathroom as soon as I could and pulled my panties up and gave them a stern lecture about staying put.
And they did.
Y'all, I'm pretty sure my panties were trying to prevent me from spending too much money at Hobby Lobby. Like maybe Will implanted them with some sort of microchip triggered by money-spending endorphines or the smell of my debit card that caused them to release their elastic. Or maybe the Filing Cabinet was working some sort of magic, being privy to my bank account.
Whatever the case, I took those jokers off as soon as I got home and replaced them with a pair of inoffensive, non-perky, white cotton briefs that are doing nothing more than sitting on my fanny being panties. The blue-polka dotted ones?
They're sitting in my laundry basket, looking all innocent.
But I know their secret. I know that as soon as I turn my back, they're going to be plotting against me.
(Is it weird that I'm actually now a little afraid of my panties?)
(You don't have to answer that question.)