Taking a trip on a typical Southern summer day is like booking a jaunt through a teenager’s armpit. The elephants had on their swimming trunks and the rattlesnakes kept running through the misters. Luckily they left the misses alone or they’d have gotten more than they bargained for.
A thunderstorm popped up in the last minutes, sending us running to the parking lot. Hampered by soggy clothes, we were soaked by the time we made it to higher ground in the family Kia. Nothing says “Proceed with Caution” like a pair of cotton bikinis tatted into a doily like grandma used to make, and wedged onto your end table.
Changing clothes in the car when you’re 18 is like changing lipstick. One layer melts off and another goes on with a minimum of fuss or moving parts and stays in place until close contact with a particularly aggressive burrito warrants a change.
Changing clothes in the car when you’re over fifty is like playing a rousing game of Twister when you’re encased in a full body cast. Nothing moves like it should and if something suddenly pops out of place, the whole project is in jeopardy. And just before your right hand reaches the blue circle, you’re liable to encounter a roadblock scarier than anything Stephen King could dream up. Add a gallon of water from a sudden downpour and your underpants turn into a temporary tattoo.
With one foot stuck in the glove box and my neck wedged under the headrest like dental floss, I felt kind of like the skewer that holds the fruit surprise in a mixed drink. My shorts wrapped around my legs and my face was thrust through one sleeve of my Tshirt.
“Okay, here come some folks. Sit up!” If the Captain had been nearer to the window I’d have given him a wedgie of his own to think about. A young couple strolling past with a small boy glanced in our direction. The mother took her child’s hand and affectionately dragged him across the gravel toward their minivan. I’m pretty sure I spotted him calling 911 on his Playskool phone.
Unfortunately, the sudden jerk into politically correct posture created a certain amount of tension between my posterior and the blinker switch, which caused the hazard lights to spring into action and installed an air conditioning vent in my unmentionables. Since our next stop was an Italian restaurant that didn’t boast low enough lighting to disguise my window seat, a quick stop by the mall was in order.
A nearby mall had a fancy lingerie boutique and, quite the gentleman, the Captain dashed inside and was soon back with a safe pair of step-ins to see me through dinner.
“Victoria’s Secret?” I asked slyly.
“Oh better than that. They had a sign in the dollar store that told me all I needed to know.”
That's my boy. It might have been "Something old, something blue" when we got married, but I've got "Brand New, Never Used" on my anniversary.
Come laugh with me at Mind Over Mullis. You can watch me do lots more stupid stuff!