When my underwear had no elastic, I knew it was gonna be a stupid day.
I was late, for a change. Freezing in our laundry room, which is basically a back porch with windows on it, I put on the first pair of underwear that I pulled from the Vesuvius pile on the dryer.
"Why isn't the right side, you know, hanging on?" I wondered. It was just kind of flapping at my side. In the breeze. For a brief, shining moment, I thought maybe I had lost weight. But really, the elastic had just frizzled out of that side, rendering it sort of helpless. It was kind of like my underwear had had a stroke.
I put them on anyway. It was 8:01 and I am supposed to BE at work at 8:00.
Dashing out the door, I flumped my coffee cup onto the space between the car seats. Do not ask me why I decided to pull the emergency brake once I parked at work. Do not ask me the expletives I came up with as the coffee cup shot up and spewed coffee all over the car.
Running and trying to subtly push my flippy undergarment to its rightful place, I did notice that we have a bird's nest in one of our trees at the church. Those of you who read my blog last year know how I get about bird nests. I am so pitching a tent, so to speak, under that tree. There was ONE bright spot today.
Once inside, it didn't take long before my elastic-free pants decided to revisit all the old familiar places, so crankily I headed to the bathroom to revamp myself.
The single toilet in the women's room was hissing and carrying on, so with my fine mechanical abilities, I took the lid off the tank and jiggled everything. You will be surprised to hear this did not result in, well, anything, so I called the repairman.
How long do you think it took me between realizing the one toilet was broken and feeling like I absolutely, with an intensity unbeknownst to me in this life, had to use the facilities? It took about seven seconds, that's how long.
Now, there is a men's toilet. And I do not know why I am Prissy Fusspants of Squeamytown, but I simply could not make myself go in there, no matter how miserable I had made myself at this point. I kept saying, "June, this is psychological. You do not really have to go. Soon the repairman will be here and you can piddle to your heart's content. Now, go to work."
Well. Ten minutes of alternating between pulling at my underpants and dancing around — it was less the macarena and more the Make-A-Rain-A — I left a huge sign on the church door: WENT HOME TO PEE. PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE. BE RIGHT BACK.
I can assure you that everybody in town read the sign and simultaneously envisioned me on the pot.
And what a sight I was when I got home, coat flapping behind me, spike heels clacking on my stone walk. It was like I was a racing greyhound, but there was a toilet in front of me instead of a bunny.
When I got back to work, I realized that I had run so fast that I have thrown out my back. I do not know how bad it is gonna get.
It is noon, folks. Noon. My back's broke, my bladder has exploded, and my underwear is addicted to crack.
This day has become a country song. It is a stupid day.