The One In Which I Discuss My Underwear In Too Great Of Detail
March 05, 2007
My mom is notorious for her shopping skillz. To wit:
1. Several weeks ago, she called me and asked me to go shopping with her for jeans. I jumped at the chance because she never shops for herself and I wanted to witness it. I walked away from the mall with two very large, very full, very heavy bags of clothes. She walked away with one small(ish) bag.
2. A week and a half after that excursion, she called because she was out shopping again. Apparently she had run into quite the sale, and wanted to inform me that she bought me several pairs of underthings, and did I mind that she couldn’t find any nude-colored bras?
3. This weekend she unloaded on me two boxes of Special K cereal and one pair of quite fancy kitchen shears.
I’ve always loved shopping with my mom because she has a nose for bargains – if there is one to be had, she’ll find it. Which is how I ended up with one pair of freakishly large underwear.
They’re black and almost tall enough to wear as a strapless one-piece swimsuit. Just as the aqua tag boasts, they’re irresistibly soft (though Roger manages to find them resistible).
When Mom first gave them to me, I laughed out loud and shrieked, “Mom! Roger will NEVER go for these. They’re so…BIG!” She giggled and said to try them, that I’d like them – the same thing she said about eating brussel sprouts all those years ago (though that time, she was right) – and so I smiled, uncertain what to think, and put them in my dresser drawer. I wasn’t sure I’d ever wear them.
That was a week ago, long enough for them to get lost in the deep recesses of my drawer.
(Insert a gentle segue between these two topics HERE.)
On Saturday night, Roger and I had surprise dinner plans.
Roger told me on Saturday morning that I should get a little dressed up, since we were going somewhere nice. I kind of scoffed, thinking to myself, "I have tons of things to wear. No reason to put extra thought into this." and went about my daily business.
And then, later that evening, it happened. The meltdown.
It was half an hour before we were supposed to walk out the door. I was standing in the closet performing my ritual of staring in perplexion* at my odd assortment of clothes and wishing I had that closet from the movie Clueless – remember that closet? It was computerized and had a monitor that showed endless outfit options, and the clothes cycled through on some sort of moving belt system?
Roger had simply told me, "Just put on a dress or something and look cute," and when those last two words were uttered, my world came crashing down – gah. I know, okay? I know. Am considering keeping valium on hand – and I realized that I would never look cute because I didn't have a dress to wear, so I shut the closet door, leaned against it, and wailed that he should just go to the restaurant without me. For lo: I had nothing to wear and how could he try to make me go out somewhere nice with him? Where other humans would have to see me? And maybe even talk to me?
My delusional behavior continued for about fifteen minutes, all during which Roger was probably rolling his eyes while he tried to talk to me in a rational manner, but I couldn't see what he was doing. Remember? I had shut myself into the closet.
My maturity astounds you, does it not?
I decided that I would allow my husband to take me on a date afterall, and hastily put on a skirt and a shirt with a long sparkly necklace. I walked out the door as though my outfit came together effortlessly, as though I hadn't just spent fifteen minutes in the closet pining for prettiness and cute dresses, as though I hadn't just been cursing myself because my staple work uniform is a pair of slacks and a button down blouse.
What was so hard about that, again? Because clothing myself shouldn't be this difficult.
All the way to the restaurant I teased Roger that I had a surprise** for him. That maybe I had put on something very special under my clothes just to let him know how I felt. That maybe he would be excited about what I was wearing under there.
Then I giggled a very malicious giggle, one that he wasn't sure how to interpret, because I knew what I was really wearing.
(Thank you, Mom.)
* Dictionary.com says this is not a word. Therefore, it has been dubbed a word by Chirky.com
** In hindsight, I do feel a little guilty about this. Because he took me to a very nice restaurant for dinner with two of our favorite friends, and I had a lovely time. But I still think it's funny.