My girlfriend is Martha Stewart. Not literally. To be clear, I have never had cocktails with Martha, but my girlfriend is the type of woman who does everything well. For example, if a tree falls in her yard during a storm, she will hike out with a chain saw, slice up the tree, and carry in the boughs. With these cuttings, she will create a gorgeous three-foot centerpiece; after dinner she will set her art aflame and toast homemade marshmallows. The marshmallows will be used in s’mores made with gourmet graham crackers purchased while travelling through a remote Italian village. Of course, she will pair these s’mores with the perfect wine that embodies freedom and joyful abandon with hints of citrus and chocolate.
I spent the weekend in San Francisco with my friend. I loved every minute of it. Our first morning, she emerged from the bathroom. “I forgot underwear’” she said.
“Hmmm,” I replied. “I would lend you my emergency underwear (I always travel with one extra pair of panties just in case my flight is delayed by twenty-four hours, and I have to sleep on a stool at the airport Burger King), but,” I continued, “lending you my panties grosses me out in some unexplainable way.”
“God, No!” she assured me. “I don’t want to wear your panties. Besides, I made myself a pair of underwear out of toilet paper.”
“Of course you did,” I replied. “That is exactly what I would have done.”
That is not what I would have done. I would have gone commando, and I would have told all the taxi drivers throughout the day that I wasn’t wearing panties.
“Why would you do that?” you ask.
I have no idea. I have a history of over-sharing.
So, my girlfriend leaves the hotel in her sassy outfit and toilet-paper underwear. We head to Nordstrom to purchase her new panties. A long conversation ensues over the possibility that the new panties may have been previously owned by a sweaty cross-fit instructor with bad credit who returned them to pay for a Brazilian wax. (Not that I think all cross-fit instructors have bad credit. It is mere speculation on my part.) Regardless, the fake Martha Stewart cringes at the thought of wearing P.W.P. (previously worn panties). After weighing her options and accepting that her tissue underwear may not last until lunch, she determines that the panties hanging furthest back on the rack would be the least likely to be P.W.P. Then, she devised a system for determining which underwear had the least disturbed price tags. Ultimately, she felt confident with the cleanliness of her new purchase.
She handed over her credit card and disappeared to the dressing room.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Changing into my new underwear. I didn’t know what to do with the toilet-paper panties,” she said. “So, I rolled them into a ball and shoved the wad under the dressing-room chair cushion.”
I nodded my support. “Of course you did,” I replied. “That is exactly what I would have done.”