This week I had family in town for my dwarf second cousin’s funeral; it was like a circus, but not because of the dwarf. Various characters have stopped by my house to say hello and have a glass of tea.
Yesterday, my aunt and cousin came over with my grandmother. My cousin had never been to my new-ish house, so I was giving her a quick tour to show her all the remodeling we’ve completed. When we bought the house six years ago, it was stuck in 1992 with an Asian twist. The countertops were pink tile, and all the walls were pale lavender. The den curtains were the background from Glamour Shots, and statement Oriental wallpaper hung in almost every room. Even the flowers that bloomed that first spring carried on the pink and purple scheme. I admired the previous owner’s dedication and thoroughness, but since I’m not a geisha, I remodeled immediately.
We talked about the crazy 1992 style, and after I accused my older, beautiful cousin of having posed for Glamour Shots photos, there was a pause in the conversation. She was probably reflecting on those gorgeous, feathered photographs. Suddenly, my grandmother ended the silence by commanding me, “Show them your underwear, Angela!”
She does not have dementia, and I’m not usually an exhibitionist. I knew exactly what underwear she was talking about and why she wanted me to show them. I’ve kept them in a special place for six years now.
You see, I had a potentially severe accident, and the underwear are my proof of the Zoolander Miracle.
Five summers ago, my husband and I remodeled much of the kitchen ourselves one week when the kids were out of town. We worked our fingers to the bone stripping wallpaper, texturing the walls, and painting. By the end of the week, we were exhausted and very high on paint fumes. The last day, my hubby drove to pick up the kids while I stayed at home to finish painting. I stood on top of the counter and painted over my head while listening to John Mayer for the 60th hour that week. As everyone came home and walked through the door, my tired and light-headed body started to climb down from the counter. Unfortunately, I realized too late that I rubbed my bum against the upper cabinets and hooked my shorts and underwear on the cabinet knob.
Did I mention that my house was built for tall people? The upper cabinet is higher than normal on the wall. As I jumped down, my underwear remained hooked securely on the knob, and I HUNG SUSPENDED BY MY PANTIES FROM THE UPPER CABINET. It was like a scene from a medieval torture chamber—the ultimate wedgie—and all my body weight depended upon a small piece of Victoria’s Secret cloth now harshly pulled into the nether regions where my chastity belt would have been. As my husband and the kids looked on in confusion at mom hanging helplessly with arms flailing, THANK GOD the panties ripped, and I fell to the ground.
All my husband could say was, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?”
Thanks, dude. Yeah, I was just playing around.
I looked up with incredulous fear on my face—I was an angel across the room watching myself do this—and I pulled a Zoolander. My husband and the kids were still frozen in the doorway, and as they stood there, I pulled my panties out and off even though my shorts were still on. I tried to explain what had just taken place, but I was shaking from fear at the thought of the damage I’d just inflicted on myself. After a few self-examinations, I found that I was just fine, although I was weak and shaky for about three hours after the adrenaline receded.
We’ve had some good laughs about the incident since then.
I keep the underwear in a special place as a reminder of that miracle, and also because it makes a great ice breaker when new guests visit the house.
“Hey, you want a glass of wine? Oh, and let me show you my underwear!”
*Since you are a treasured guest on my blog, I’ll show you my panties.