The one about my panties

Preface: Every time I want to delete this page altogether, somebody hires me because they read about my panties. I don’t know what to make of this. I mean, really? That’s what sold you? I gave you curated case studies and pictures of specialty coffee and hand-drawn illustrations. But no. You went with the panties. Why did I even…you know, whatever. I give up. Here you go.

—

Every once in a lifetime (or less frequently if you are fortunate), something happens that is so mortifying that you desperately stare at the floor, looking for the smallest crack, hoping that somehow the earth will mercifully open up and swallow you. It never does.

One day, some friends and I got together at church for a worship night. Now I like to stand at the front. More space. Less busy. Anything to help my easily distracted mind. (This is a modest declaration of self-professed bohemian brilliance. "I'm so sorry, darling, I have such terrible attention span" = "You boring moron. I'm different from you. I am a creative genius with multiple trains of thought and not enough brain cells to join them. Oh look, there's a duck.")

And I like to pace. Up and down. Back and forth. Pace. Pace. Pace.
The band was playing and everyone was standing. Worship. Worship. Worship.

So there I was, right in front. The band in front of me, the rest of the crowd behind me. Loudly and oh-so-conspicuously sandwiched between the two, to make what was about to happen next all the more excruciating.

As I paced, my eye caught something lying on the floor. A purple splash of colour on an otherwise beige and muted carpet. A couple of feet away from the band. I walked past and my brain almost tossed it aside with the billion shreds of useless information it gathers every minute.

The light is too bright. The windows are dirty. The sound guy looks tired. That painting is gorgeous. Red looks nice on her. There's a purple something on the floor. My toenails are ...

Wait. Purple something? Suddenly, I had this nagging thought that it was an all too painfully familiar shade. No, it couldn't be...I had to see it again. Oh God, I had to.

I turned around and started pacing back, convinced that any minute now, the entire church would be entirely fixated on me, all my thoughts and movements projected onto the overhead screen in blazing Technicolor, complete with Korean subtitles. I had to make this quick.

I glanced down. My heart stopped. It really stopped. I needed CPR. I was sure of it. Wait. I couldn't draw attention to myself. Breathe. Just breathe.

I looked again. There was no mistaking it.

The little purple lacy item lying on that beige and muted carpet belonged to me.
And drumroll…

"In Christ alone, my hope is found.."

...it was my underwear.

Of course, my first reaction was to reach back into my jeans and check that I was wearing some. I mean, all kinds of weird shit happened at church. I told Jesus once I wanted to teleport. Maybe it was happening in stages.

I swallowed the giant lump of panic rising in my throat and forced myself to think clearly. I needed all my wits about me if I was going to get out of this unscathed. Think. Think.

Flashback to 3 hours ago. I’ve just taken a shower and dropped my dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. Close up shot of the pile, and what do you see but a pair of purple panties. (And this is why you ALWAYS put dirty laundry in the laundry basket.) I pull on a pair of too-long jeans and fold the bottoms into cuffs. The panties get caught in the cuff. They hitch a ride all the way to church. And they fall out. When I’m pacing. IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE BLOODY CONGREGATION.

The obvious solution presented itself. DISOWN IT! ABANDON IT! DENY IT! After all, you couldn’t really tell it was underwear, could you? I surveyed the crime scene. As it lay there, scrunched up as it was, it didn't look too menacing. Why, it could even possibly pass for a hair band or a scarf or some such thing. When the evening's done, just walk away quickly and none's the wiser. Phew. Okay. There was no need for panic.

Unless. I played out the most likely future scenario in my head with Korean subtitles. I can't read Korean. But i imagine it said:

Man 1: "Hey you. You in the too-long jeans! Come back…you dropped this over here.."
(Choir: "She did?")
Me: "Oh no, no, its not mine, I didn't drop anything…"
Man 2: "Yes yes, you did. I saw you drop it!"
(Choir: "She did!")
Woman 1: "I saw it too! We all did! Let me just pick it up for you…"
Me: "Nonononooooooooo……STOOOOOOOP……"

End scene. Credits.

My heart shrunk to a raisin. This was the end. I started making lists. I make lists when I am stressed. Or dying.

Countries where I can start over again:
1. Jamaica
2. The Cook Islands
3. Neverland

What to do with my purple panties:
1. Frame them and hang them in my new house/boat/shack in Jamaica.
2. Burn them and chuck the ashes into the Ganges/bathtub/flour.
3. Wear them around my head in shame.
4. Wear them around my head like a f*cking trophy.

What to watch again on Netflix:
1. Sherlock
2. The X Files

***

Suddenly, a moment of inspiration seized me. I grabbed my satchel, and nonchalantly sat down on the carpet, within arms reach of my panties. My satchel has long since been famed as one of the Mary Poppins variety. So I reached into it and proceeded to lay around me the following array of items in a carefully plotted haphazard fashion: Journal. Pens. Paint. Brushes. Books. Makeup bag. Sweater. Sunglasses. Cutting blade. Steel ruler. Markers. Post-its. Chocolate. My purple panties were now obscured by this little cornucopia of my salvation, as I lay sprawled over it all, pretending to journal.

I waited the requisite eight minutes or so to make the whole performance seem legit. Then, in a magnificent moment of redemption, I reached out to gather all my belongings, all of them, gracefully shoving them back into my satchel.

And I walked away, leaving behind a perfectly uninterrupted beige and muted carpet.