I’m not normally an exhibitionist
Yesterday, while bending over to grab my gloves, my jeans split. Yes, it was a moment worthy of sitcom TV.
Unfortunately, the untimely demise of my jeans (you cannot sew a patch there, if you get my drift) leaves me with two (count them, two) pairs of pants: one other pair of jeans and one pair of granny pants. And by granny pants, I mean exactly that: my grandmother gave them to me because they didn’t fit her and she didn’t want to return them to the store. They’re great for wearing around the house, but I can’t exactly wear them in company.
Despite the fact that I am at an almost emergency-level state of pantlessness, this morning I threw both pairs of pants in the washing machine. At the time, I was still wearing my pajamas. No problem, right? I have nowhere to go while my clothes wash.
But wait—here’s the good part. I took a bath. After I got out of the bath, in my infinite wisdom I wrapped myself in a towel and threw every scrap of dirty clothing I had left in the wash. Including the pajama pants. You see where this is going?
I am walking around the house in a tshirt and underwear, waiting for my jeans to dry. Have I ever mentioned that our house is across from the playground? You do realize it’s Saturday and the children have nothing better to do than play outside? (Well, ok, good for them for not being in front of the TV, where they might see something obscene, like a half-naked woman… wait…).
I have pulled every shade in the house down and I am skulking around like a criminal. What if someone comes to the door?