Should I cue up the Chicken Dance or hit publish?

So as I mentioned in my previous post, something bad did happen while we were on vacation last month.  I've been pondering whether I have the guts to post this, but now that I've actually been called out as a chicken by my friend Andy, who begged me to blog about this once she'd finished laughing her head off at me as I told her the story (really now, I share my deepest, darkest vacation horror story and she just flails about laughing.  Not a dollop of sympathy for my plight), I feel that I have no choice.

I'm warning you up front, any men who might read my blog regularly, occasionally or who accidentally stumble upon this whilst doing some creepo pervy Google search: this is NOT what you want to be reading.  Promise.  If you have never owned your own set of ovaries, do yourself a favor and move on.  Seriously.

Now that it's just us girls in here, I shall begin my Tale of Horror and Woe.

A few days before vacation, Kiddo, her grandma and I hit the outlet mall for some back to school shopping.  This was necessary because Kiddo decided to outgrow the sneakers we'd gotten for her in April, going through just one size in a year apparently not being good enough for her.  Annnnyhow, while we were there, I popped into the Jockey outlet, because I needed new undies and the outlet is my favorite (read: cheapest) place to get them.  I've worn plain, cotton, Jockey for Her undies for years now.  Decades, even.  So, we ducked into the shop, Kiddo on the verge of totally losing her shizzle, all of us low on shopping energy and motivation and hungry for lunch and I just wanted to grab what I needed and go.  I made my way back to the large display area where row after row of multipack Jockey for Hers can be found.  I paused briefly, trying to remember exactly which style it is I prefer.  (I once bought the wrong style and spent the next several months always feeling like the lower-riding-than-my-usual-kind-of-undies were falling down.  Way uncomfortable.)  My eye finally fell upon the kind I prefer, so I grabbed two boxes from the row with my size and headed to the register.  The next day, Hubby did all the pre-trip laundry (yes, I have that awesome a husband, y'all - he does the laundry all the time!) and when I went to pack, I found my new undies (including some colored ones for a change of pace - red!  Blue!  Red and blue paisley!) neatly folded and awaiting me.  I promptly packed those along with a couple other, older pairs out of my drawer and thought that was that.

Then I woke up that first morning of vacation in the hotel and grabbed a pair of my new undies out of the drawer.  "Hmmmmm," I thought to myself, "these seem a big bigger than usual."  I chalked it up to their being new and therefore not shrunken from being washed a thousand and ten times and hopped into the shower.  When it came time to get dressed, I stepped into them.  They were definitely...............roomier than I recalled.  Uh-oh.  I pulled on my shorts and discovered that once I'd fastened them, my new undies were showing above the waistband.  Well, not so much showing as billowing above the waistband of my shorts.  As in a few good inches of underwear material.  Ack.  I found myself tucking my underwear back into my shorts (because what is more comfortable in the heat of late summer Florida, not to mention more slimming, than having a few extra inches of fabric jammed about your midsection?) and trying to get on with my day.

Okay, menfolk, if you ignored me before and are still reading, seriously, you may want to check out for the rest of this.  It's not for you.  This is your last chance to bail out.

So, ladies, it turned out our trip coincided with that certain time of the month and as such, I had to utilize certain items in these voluminous drawers of mine.  Now, I prefer the external, winged variety of such items.  I had attempted to affix one of such items securely to the pertinent section of my, okay, I'm just gonna say it, my granny bloomers.  Off we went to the parks for a day of fun and excitement.  As we were walking from one thing to the next, I felt an odd sensation.  As though something had............. shifted.  Come unstuck, as it were.  And it had.  It had, I mean.  Unfortunately, it only came unstuck for the briefest of moments before resticking itself, backwards.

I'm going to give you a moment here to envision exactly to what the resticking occurred.  You with me?  Yep, I'm going to guess you are.

I shifted about as discreetly as possible, but no amount of shifting was going to help and in fact any and all movement was further complicating the situation.  I told Hubby I had to utilize the facilities, insisted on leaving Kiddo with him (as she normally accompanies me not only into the bathroom whenever we're out someplace in public, but also into the stall with me), and made my way as gingerly and speedily as I could to the nearest ladies' room. Yes, walking was trickier than usual in this situation.  In the stall, I discovered that what I had suspected was correct.  Egads.  I proceeded to cowboy up (no need to put on my big girl panties - already had that taken care of, now didn't I?) and rectify the situation as quickly and quietly as possible.

You know how painful it is to wax your eyebrows, or perhaps your upper lip?  This?  A thousand times worse.  If ever I had contemplated waxing anything below my chin (which I haven't, for the record), I am now soundly convinced not to, ever ever ever.  

When we got home, I pulled out a pair of the same style undies and checked the tags.  Turned out the granny bloomers I'd inadvertently bought were three sizes larger than my normal size.

(The black pair actually fit me.  The paisleys?  Not so much.)

Of course now that they'd been opened, washed and some worn, I can't exactly return them.  So now I know I'll be all set if I ever want to, say, go hang gliding or parasailing or if Kiddo wants a new swing for the backyard... and thus concludes my Tale of Vacation Woe, also known as How to Achieve a Partial Brazilian While Wearing a Ginormous Pair of Drawers.