Alas, My Underwear

All day I had to struggle with a terrible truth: my underwear were about to fall down around my ankles. Yes, like the unfortunate models in the work of the immortal Art Frahm, I was in imminent danger, all day, of having my underwear drop around my ankles while I was struggling with my bag of celery. Except for the celery part. I skipped the celery part. It's a terrible feeling to be a properly dressed semi career woman: running properly late in the morning, clutching your proper plastic cup of coffee and large purse and your properly plastic grocery bagged low calorie lunch and then, suddenly, realizing that your undies are heedlessly headed southward. There's a sinking feeling that accompanies that sensation and it says: oh shit, I'm going to have to be pulling up my panties all goddamn day. This is going to suck.

Through a miracle or perhaps that utter heedlessness of proper public behavior which leads me to be completely able to stop and hitch up my undies in the middle of a public street, though, the ultimate Art Frahm sad fate did not befall me. For one thing, I avoided the post office, because you know that would have been tempting fate. I'm still sad, though, because I loved these underwear, my shiny Wal Mart pale purple with red ladybugs and improbably green vines bikini panties, and now, alas, alack, they are dead. They are no more. They are ex, departed, late, pining for the fjords and metaphorically nailed to the perch (give it up. There's no joke you can make there that I haven't already thought of and rejected.)

So raise a glass to the dearly departed, y'all, as I plan to dump them unceremoniously in the trash. Bid them farewell. And join me in my glee as I realize that this totally means I can go and buy new underwear without the slightest shred of guilt.