There once was a boy I liked. In all honesty, there were a few. This one was a close personal friend of my sister, who probably liked her as much as I liked him. That’s the way love is when you are a kid. Always these ridiculous triangles. Profess your feelings, at age 16, and they are bound to be professed back to you about 6 months later, when you’re no longer interested in the original person, but oh… his best friend is soooo hot. Ah. What great fun!
This boy came to visit us one summer. We went out on the dock to watch for shooting stars. Sounds like the romance scene from a Hannah Montana movie, doesn’t it? We sat there, just the two of us, with the moon and the stars reflecting on the lake. We spoke of red giants and white dwarfs (astronomy talk – probably NOT on that Hannah Montana movie). It was amazing. It was romantic (even if that was only from my perspective). And there was something in my pants.
No. It was not the boy. It was my underwear. Well, of course – why wouldn’t my underwear be in my pants? Not THAT underwear. That was on my body, in my pants. This pair was just floating around willy nilly, in my pant leg. Somewhere between denim and skin. I reached up to scratch a bug bite and there it was. Earlier in the day, I had grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor of my room (obviously I’ve been a neat freak from day one), and apparently they were in the dirty pile. Well, my room WAS the dirty pile. My undies from the previous day were still wadded up inside of them. Oh. The horror.
As an adult, I would have pulled those suckers out and laughed for at least five solid minutes. As a teenager, I freaked out.
“What if he see’s a bulge in my pants? He’s gonna think I’m some genetic mutant! What if we make out, and they fall out, and he thinks I’m so easy that my panties just spontaneously fall off when I kiss a boy? What am I going to do with these dirty panties? Oh My God!!” I thought, in a growing state of panic.
Fortunately for me, this boy was not into me and had no desire to make-out. Whew. Little did I know what a blessing that was. I shoved the panties higher up inside of my pants as we walked back to the house. I desperately hoped the starlight wouldn’t reveal my bulge.
I survived the rest of his visit without too many more failed attempts at romance. I did somehow manage to fall face first over a log while we were hanging out next to the campfire, shooting off bottle rockets. I am scared of fireworks and – since its me we’re talking about – there was probably beer involved. My feet are notoriously faster than my eyes, especially when I’m drinking. Never even saw that giant log. That was cute. It’s a wonder that boy didn’t want to get right into my pants, alongside my day old underwear.
My bubble has never been a highly glamorous location, I’ll be the first to admit it. It also isn’t very coordinated. I fall down a lot (especially when sober). Fortunately, my bubble is full of (hot) air, and it helps me bounce. There are buckets of cow’s milk in my bubble, too. I think the milk helps strengthen my bones. And my ability to laugh at myself.
side note: at the gym on Monday, a woman told me I was graceful. I laughed inappropriately loud (in my defense, I did have head phones on). She looked at me like I was a loon. I realized that she perceived me as graceful while I was laying down, stretching. When laying down, I AM graceful. Just watch out when I stand up! If only she’d seen my tripping up the stairs on the Stairmaster five minutes before…