i am feeling embarassed about posting this thread, whatwith the title and the contents… but man - my sides ache with laughter everytime i read this. It is so darn funny… i hope someone else thinks that way too. Sorry if anyone’s offended by the crassness of the title and the contents… i just wanted to share it. hahahhaha warning - don’t read this if you are drinking hot chai cuz you are definitely going to spill it on the keyboard. From a whacky point of view, it is hilarious.
The following are two stories from a book of women’s accounts of their travelling experiences.
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[Note regarding the author: Christie Eckardt is a web site designer and children’s muralist with an affection for the unknown. The portability of her “career” has allowed her to raft Nepal’s coldest rivers, nearly be trampled in a raid in Bangkok’s red-light district, and bring in Y2K on the shores of Vietnam. She currently divides her time between Germany and the United Arab Emirates.]
Dryden in Lawrence of Arabia described the deserts of the Arabian Peninsula as “a burning, fiery furnace,” and for good reason. Summer temperatures can reach up to 140 degrees Fahrenheit. You go through several sets of clothes on any given day and today is no exception.
Since I haven’t had a chance to do laundry in a few days, I am stuck with a baggy but well-ventilated pair of underwear. Wearing a long skirt I set out for the local grocery store on the other side of a six-lane street. I reach the intersection and notice that my underwear is not feeling exactly the way it should. Standing next to all these stopped cars, I can’t exactly hike it up. I’m in a Muslim country. Muslims prefer not to see a woman’s calf or forearm, much less watch her adjusting her skivvies. I need to find a private spot.
The parking lot is buzzing and someone is sitting inside every parked car to keep the air conditioning running. Inside the store, I am starting to get nervous so I look for an empty aisle where I can make my vertical adjustment. My underwear is now flying at half-mast. I am convinced that the cold air in the freezer aisle has shrunken my gluteus maximus as the “traitor” makes its way toward the floor posthaste. Where did all these people come from? Don’t you have homes to go to? Preferably now?
I decide it’s best to go home. I quickly buy a bag of groceries but by the time I get to the door the “sail” is way below half-mast, maintaining position due to an interesting walking style allowing my upper legs to hold them in place. This is funny in a desperate kind of way. Two minutes later when I arrive at the intersection I find my panties wedged between my knees. The pedestrian light is turning green. I have to walk across three lanes of stopped traffic with the real chance that my underwear may fall onto the street. This isn’t so funny after all. I start to panic.
What will I do if they fall? Stop and pick them up? Just step out of them and walk on as if they aren’t mine? When was the last time you saw underwear fall from the heavens? I can just hear some guy say, “Hey you’re the girl whose underwear fell off on 11th Street, aren’t you!” That is if I don’t get thrown into prison for indecency. If I do go to prison, maybe I can shave my head and pose as a man until I can book a flight to Siberia. My head is spinning.
I decide I will just walk out of them and not go home until the traffic is long gone so no one knows where I live. But I don’t. People are staring at me for the way I am hobbling across the street. They are feeling sorry for me for whatever walking disability I have. I start to laugh, imagining what I must look like to them and I have to stop in the middle of the street as my gravity-loving underwear now travel to my calves. I am imagining my inevitable cellmate. Oh, why didn’t I wear pants? Who invented underwear anyway? Can you declare a jihad on the elastic industry? I manage to make it across the street after the light turns green. Nobody even honks at me to get out of the way, probably feeling sorry for me, being maimed and all. My legs are cramping from clenching to hold the underwear up.
But it doesn’t end there. A group of Pakistani men are sitting on the grassy area between the corner and my door, so I have to make it past them. Walking the length of a single house takes me eight minutes. Finally, as I approach my door, my bag of groceries slips out of my grasp and spills its contents onto the sidewalk. Without thinking, I crouch down to get them. BOOM! My skivvies hit the pavement. I can’t get up without them showing around my ankles. Of course at that moment a man on a bicycle comes up behind me kindly waiting for me to move aside so he can pass. Catch-22.
After giggling, half-crying, and mumbling something like “Please just go around,” I manage to half-hop and drag myself out of the way as if my knees are surgically attached to my breastbone and my ankles fused to my posterior. I fall into the terrace safe from the public eye. Tears of relief and amusement spill through uncontrollable laughter. Inside, I throw away all similarly stretched underwear lurking in the back of my drawer. I make a mental note to rewrite guidebooks to this region. Tight undies are a must!
Thanks for not making me feel stupid for opening this thread 