My phone rang in between the time I dropped my kids at school and the start of my yoga class. My friend got right to the point.
“Do you, by any chance, wear Calvin Klein size M underwear?”
I thought back to the last time I bought undies, trying to remember my size. It was Costco, probably sometime in 2008.
“Why, yes I do.” I began to get excited. My friend is well-connected, and I was wondering if she was passing on to me a bloggy review for Calvin Klein. Although, had I taken the notion a bit further, I would have thought it odd that there would be such specific size qualifications.
“OH THANK G*D!!” I heard her sign deeply, and I could tell, across the miles, that a big gob of stress just left her body.
Does this mean I don’t get free underwear? I thought. Silently.
“I found some women’s underwear in my husband’s bag this morning,” my friend spilled. “While I was getting the children ready for school, I advised them in my head to give Daddy a big hug now because they’d never see him again. I was halfway to changing the locks. And, simultaneously planning to gather the kids after school and go far far away.”
Slowly I started to understand. MY underwear — worn — were out there in public. Horrors! And they were linked with her husband. What!?
I tried to put the pieces together while she continued to tell me her thought processes since the discovery. In the back of my mind I tried to remember if I had an af.fair with her husband.
But I WAS using half my brain to figure out how my undies got in his bag.
Which I must have said aloud.
“When you visited me” she reasoned, “you took an overnight trip-within-a-trip to another friend’s. Remember we loaned you the bag so you didn’t have to take your suitcase?”
Aaaaah! The pieces began to fill in. Clearly, I hadn’t completely emptied the borrowed bag when I returned to her house. Again, horrors!*
I try to be a low-impact guest. I try to make sure that I don’t leave my stuff around the house when I am a visitor. I clean up after myself. I try not to leave a trace.
I left a big trace this time. Size 5, to be precise. And it gave Melissa and her emotions a terrible, horrible, no good rollercoaster ride.
Ultimately, Melissa was relieved that I’d left my panties there — as relieved as I was horrified.
We hung up so I could go to yoga. And so she could cancel the locksmith.
* at least it was a non-ratty pair.
Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net (not the actual pair in question)