I am the type of person who sometimes does inappropriate things. Usually because I try to get a laugh. Because I am a clown. In my way early twenties while working in corporate, I did an inappropriate thing. While I was in the elevator with a coworker/friend (Ali), I had the issue of what you would affectionately call a “wedgie.” So, because we were alone, I hiked up my skirt and un-wedgied myself. Problem fixed. No biggie. And Ali laughed. Just what I wanted.
2 Days later, via interoffice mail, I received a memo on official letterhead from the president of the company. Basically, it was a letter reprimanding me for the inappropriateness of my actions. The letter mentioned something about probation. I had no idea they had cameras in the elevator.
The blood immediately drained from my face. I had the overwhelming need to either vomit or pee myself. I started freaking out and tried to think back to that day. Did I lift my skirt all the way up or just kind of put my hand up there? I guess it didn’t matter. All I knew was that some people are so touchy. What’s the big deal? The big deal is that I really liked my job and I didn’t want to lose it over the fact that I was merely trying to make myself more comfortable. Okay, and make Ali laugh.
It turns out the joke was on me. Ali got her hands on some “official letterhead” and mailed the letter to me herself. That was a proud moment in my life. I taught her well. Carry on, Ali, carry on.
I have been wanting to vent about this subject for a while now, waiting for the opportunity to present itself. Well, the opportunity has come in the form of one Justin Bieber and his skivvies. He honored us with the presence of his Fruit Of The Loom in this week’s “People” magazine:
If you look at “Exhibit A” you will notice he is practically naked. I can’t comprehend why he even bothered. In “Exhibit B” it just looks like his pants are loaded up. Although I’m sure his mother will say he has been potty trained for at least 16 years.
You cannot possibly tell me that this doesn’t annoy him just a tad. I’ll tell you when I wear my low-rise jeans (I know, low-rise+muffin top+middle age=NO — I’m sorry, I have no excuse), I am driven to drink because I am continuously yanking those dang things up. Almost to the point where my fingers bleed.
And it’s just not celebrities. I see it all the time, everywhere. Please do us all a favor. Keep your ass inside your pants or inside the privacy of your own home. I really don’t need to look at it. Once I saw a boy whose pants were so low, it was indecent. I almost called the police. Seriously.
Now, all you young girls out there, you cannot possibly tell me that this look is hot. I know I’m mid-fortysomething and you probably could really care less about my opinion but I was a teenage girl once. And I can promise you that look would have completely sent me running to the nearest convent if that was my only choice.
The first time I saw it, I was stunned. I sat staring trying to figure it out. It’s as if they are defying gravity or something. But then I see that they tighten their belt right below their boot-ay. Ouch. Aren’t there other unmentionables right around that frontal area? Geez, I sure hope they don’t want any babies one day because they’ll probably kill all their swimmers by means of strangulation or asphyxiation.
I can see the future headline now: “The human race is in danger of becoming extinct because of over zealous boys and their belts.” Joy.
One Saturday morning last summer, I was the only one up in the house. I never get those mornings. So I decided to watch a movie. On our big flat screen TV. A TV that can be seen at least a mile away. In a living room that my husband likes to refer to as “the fish bowl.”
I have gotten into the habit of not getting dressed when we have no plans on a Saturday. I know. It’s not a very good habit. This was my attire this one specific morning: T-shirt. Underwear. If you show up at my house on a Saturday, I can’t promise you I’ll be decent. You might want to call first.
So there I was watching a movie, minding my own business when the doorbell rings. Picture this: one 45 year old woman wearing a t-shirt and underwear nose diving onto the floor face down. Then crawling by the front door, a front door that has windows on either side, through the foyer and into the kitchen. All done in military style. You would have had to be Ray Charles not to have seen me.
So, who was interrupting my Saturday morning? Jehovah’s Witnesses. I know this because I looked at them as I was crawling past the door. 2 of them. They must think they are like a bag of Lays… one just isn’t enough.
As a parting gift, they got a very nice shot of my ass. I’m pretty sure the image was burned into their corneas. They never came back. I think what they saw scared them straight off our street. You’re welcome neighbors. You owe me.