Monday, June 6, 2011

Get-men tip #2: Show 'em your panties.

A few hours later after the incident recounted in the previous post, I am walking down the main drag, about to get lunch before work. I am still somewhat psychologically traumatized from the choking/janitor incident, but as we all know, PIZZA CURES EVERYTHING.

Almost at the pizza place, I realize my wallet (or wristlet, for you savvy fashionistas out there) was still in my bookbag. I hate making people wait, especially in line for food (because hungry people can be vicious) so I had the not-too-startling idea to get my wallet out beforehand. I put my bag down on the edge of a planter and pull out my wallet. The mini-spine on my keychain (yes, I have a plastic spine on my keychain, more on that later) catapults out a pair of lacy underwear onto the sidewalk. I noticed this a good twenty seconds later, as I was zipping things up about to walk away. Two thoughts immediately race to my mind:

1) Why the HELL are my panties in my bookbag?
2) Oh no, did anyone see that?

The first question had an easy and not-lame answer. I had been to visit my boyfriend for the weekend, and instead of carrying a suitcase, pack all my things and overnight gear in my bookbag. That usually gets a "wow, what a low-maintenance girlfriend, only one bag of stuff" nod of approval from parents. I thought I had cleaned out my bag - My computer, notebook, first book in the Dexter series were all in their place. Apparently a rogue pair of panties missed my 8am cleaning whirlwind.

The second question, unfortunately (or fortunately, for you dear reader) should have an obvious answer. Midday. Popular street. Lunch time. 20 seconds. Clearly, couldn't-be-mistaken-for-anything-else panties.  As I stuffed them into the dark recesses of my bag, rueing the day I was born, I looked up to see if anyone had seen this moment of shame...

Right into the eyes of a homeless man. Yes, I had chosen to put my bookbag next to the hobo holdout on a set of benches near the tea shop. Smelly old men were leering at my unmentionables. I did what any poised young woman in this situation would do: run away and hide in the pizza shop for a good ten minutes, and then take a different route back to work.


Side note: D the future politician made a glaring accusation that they were actually granny panties and I was spicing up the story for the internet. This is not true. First, I own very few pairs of frumpy underwear, and I certain would not bring them to a boyfriend's house (believe it or not, I try to avoid shaming myself). Secondly, I would never embellish a story without proper notice - my journalism roots would strangle me. If you must know, they were a pretty purple with a crosshatched pattern. Definitely panties. Definitely embarrassing.


This is me, by the way. I have no makeup on nor have I straightened my hair today.
Life goes on.

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