My panties on the porch. So, there’s a story…
There was a perfectly good explanation.
Daughter would call it horrifying.
It started out simply enough, as these embarrassing stories often do.
Somehow, Husband and I convinced Daughter to take a walk with us last weekend. We leashed up the pup and headed out.
Hiding the house key
Because we wanted to travel light, Husband hid our house key under an outdoor couch cushion.
When we got back from the walk, Husband picked up the wrong cushion.
There was no key.
But there was a mystery clump of black fabric.
“Are those someone’s panties?” Husband asked in surprise, as we all looked down.
“Oh, those are mine! I’ve been looking for those!” I declared in relief.
Husband and Daughter looked at me, to the panties, at me to the panties, trying to figure out what kind of activity has been happening on our front porch.
I really had been turning the house upside down looking for one of my favorite pair of underwear. The mystery was bugging me.
I had come up with all sorts of theories.
Husband lost them when he did the laundry.
Pup stole them.
They were hanging out in the land of lost socks.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Even more embarrassing
Standing there on the front porch, it all came back to me. How two weeks earlier I was heading out on a dog walk, this time, just Pup and me. Halfway down the front stairs, I felt something rubbing inside my jogger pants around my ankle.
Much to my embarrassment it was a pair of underwear I had been wearing the day before. They must’ve gotten stuck when I had taken my joggers off.
I couldn’t walk around the neighborhood with dirty underwear crumpled in the leg of my pants, so I pulled out the underwear and hid in them under that cushion on the porch couch. I would gather them up when Pup and I got back.
Only I completely forgot.
Which is why I had to tear the house upside down, come up with conspiracy theories, and experience this panty reunion in front of Husband and Daughter.
“What do you mean they are yours?” Daughter asked, horrified. I’m pretty sure she went to that place no kid wants to go thinking of her parents doing crazy things on the front porch.
“Oh, nothing like that,” I assured her, going on to explain how I almost walked through the neighborhood with dirty underwear bulging from my ankles.
It turns out the idea that I had underwear stuck in my pants, pulled them out on the front stairs, hid them and forgot about them is horrifying.
And given that it’s me, not too surprising.
It can’t just be me
But is it just me?
Does stuff like this happen to you, too, Dear Reader?
Happy and old means not even trying to make a cover story.
And about the burglar who might now know where we hide our house key? You think anyone would ever now go searching through my couch cushions knowing what might be waiting underneath?
While you’re here…
If you like this story, you might enjoy my book,