Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Reason #1 why it stinks being a female who has given birth:
A clean pair of underwear will last approximately 2.5 seconds after you let go of one gigantic sneeze and end up peeing your pants.
Reason #2 why it stinks being a female who has given birth and lives with males?
Only the dog – a fellow female – understands why you did it.
Silence. Followed a split second later by a not-so-great feeling that means I have to find a new pair of undies.
“You have GOT to be KIDDING me!” I screamed from inside our walk-in closet. I then added an extra S#&!
I stripped off the offending undergarment, tossed it into the laundry basket, pushed open the door and walked into the bedroom – only to find our 5-year-old son on my bed, laughing at the funny antics of SpongeBob SquarePants on TV.
As I was currently in a state of undress that was only legal in Vegas…on a Tuesday…I quickly ducked back behind the closet door and asked, “Uh, how long have you been there?”
He looked over at me and answered, “Long enough to hear you say, "S#&!'"
I sighed, slumped and THWACK – my forward connected with the door.
Rubbing the growing lump on my head, I made a mental note to have the Please Do Not Repeat Swear Words Just Because Mom Said Them lecture – again – with him soon. Then I considered my quandary. I was here.
In the closet.
My underwear. You know, ones not currently balled up in the laundry basket, were in the dresser all the way across the bedroom. My fuzzy robe hung on a hook behind the bathroom door about five feet away.
OK. Plan B. I turned around and surveyed the clothing options within the closet to make me presentable for a walk across the bedroom.
Oh, look-ee here. My prom dress from 1991.
It was long, white, puffed like the Michelin Man and contained about 56 miles of lace. That could work.
I reached for the hanger, pulled the dress out, cocked my head to the side and…hey…it shrunk. What was up with that?
Oh, yeah. I was a size 4 in 1991.
Unless I snapped my fingers and made the Way Back Machine suddenly appear, there was no way in hell that dress was ever gonna fit again in this lifetime.
I made a mental note to send it to Good Will. Because I was no longer feeling any good will toward it myself.
I quickly thumbed through the hangers. Business suits, dress slacks, silk shirts and fourteen pairs of the most uncomfortable heels Paris Hilton wouldn’t even wear.
Well, that’s not gonna work.
OK. Plan C. I turned toward my husband’s side of the closet and grabbed his suit jacket, wrapped it around my body and prayed like hell all my lady parts stayed hidden during the jog to my dresser.
I was halfway across the room when I heard, “What in the hell are you wearing?” from behind me.
I spun around and came face to face with my husband. I pleaded, “I have an explanation. Really. I do.”
He crossed him arms over his chest and waited with a Let’s Hear It look on his face.
I skimmed over the part about ruining my undies because – really, that’s oh-so-not-sexy – and quickly proceeded to relate the dilemma of being naked in the closet, needing undergarments but having a 5-year-old in the vicinity.
At the end of my narrative, my husband looked at me and quickly responded, “Why didn’t you just ask him to leave?”
OK, a useful tip I could have used TWO SPONGEBOB EPISODES ago!
I snapped open the dresser drawer, grabbed the first pair of undies my hands touched and slunk back to the closet while howls of laughter from the XY-chromosome members of the household trailed behind.
I walked inside the closet, cursed the fact that 24 hours of labor had ruined my bladder control forever, and pulled on my ill-gotten pair of new cotton drawers.
And then – before I could stop it – ACHOOOOO.