Keep yer pants on!

Could be worse; at least they aren't granny panties.

The expression, "Keep yer pants on," used to just mean, "Be patient!" But it has come to have a more literal meaning for me.

Because of my hours and where I worked in Colorado, I had a good 10- or 15-minute walk from my parking spot to the office, with no accessible buildings (read: bathrooms) in between. You would think that not much could go wrong in such a short period of time, but you would be wrong. Aside from the few times where I was struggling with a gastric attack and walking with eyes crossed (hey, it helps close all those sphincters), there was one occasion I do remember well. (Oh, yes, there were other memorable walks; I'll save those for another day.)

On the morning in question I had made an effort to look especially professional. I was actually wearing a skirt! And heels! And "slimming" pantyhose! And, um, a silky, "body-shaping undergarment." Not to be confused with a girdle. Because modern girls don't wear girdles. That's what our mothers wore, for Pete's sake. I had no intentions of eating or, well, breathing that day.

So I was looking fine, feeling confident, kind of struttin' my stuff.

About half way to the building from my parking spot, I felt an unusual tightening just below my waistband. I thought nothing of it.

Then the tightening gradually moved downward.

Gradually, it dawned on me what was happening: the waistband of my pantyhose was rolling down, unhampered by the slinky body-shaping undergarment girdle. (I'm trying hard to think of something OTHER THAN a condom to illustrate the way a pantyhose waistband rolls. I've failed.) As it did, the flesh above the descending band, um, relaxed over the band to prevent its rolling back UP, no matter how much I sucked in my gut. Now, if I had a NORMAL shape, my buttocks would probably have stopped the descent, but I have extreme white-girl butt: flat as a pancake. (On the bright side, it'll never sag. There is nothing TO sag.) Buttocks implants were invented with me in mind.* Combine that with a donut-eater's tummy, and you have a recipe for disaster.

(*Incidentally, here's why I will never have that surgery; skip to the 27-second mark:)


ANYWAY (What? Oh, yes, time to take my Ritalin. Thanks for the reminder.) .... So there I was, about 5 minutes from the front door of my building. I paused. I felt the pantyhose roll a bit more. I started walking again, carefully. There may have been missiles landing all around me or Ben Affleck waving to get my attention, but I was oblivious to anything aside from the rolling waistband. I did the calculations: would I be able to make it to the sanctuary of the lobby (and the adjoining restroom) before the pantyhose passed my crotch? Or would I have to waddle in with legs splayed, holding the pantyhose above my hemline?

Yah, classy, eh? I always strive to be elegant at work.

Don't always succeed.

I made it. Just. I never wore that particular combination of pantyhose and girdle again.