I Put My Thong On Sideways... Again.

You'd be surprised (or I suppose men would be surprised; not women who wear these things) how easy it is to do. This happens to me fairly regularly, me with my undies on sideways, and sometimes I catch it before the jeans go on, and sometimes I 'm in a hurry and don't figure it out until I get home and wonder what all the weird, pulling was down there (when I was younger, I might have gotten some sort of thrill out of it - now I am just annoyed), and then I have a good chuckle once I figure it out. I'd like to say my old boyfriend used to chuckle heartily along with me, but no; the boyfriend was always appalled at this; he thought it was inconceivable. We're no longer together.

I mean, it happens! Thongs are like this, this triangle of cloth, with three sides, three openings, and a front and a back. Geometry was the only kind of math I was good in at school, but this thing is like a really hard geometry question on a standardized test, with a misleading drawing and no multiple choices below. In the half-dark of my bedroom, in the morning, when I'm tired, every corner of the thing looks the same; every corner offers a pocket where the… goods go. Here's me, standing there at first, with all the confidence in the world, on one leg, thinking I'm getting dressed. Still on one leg, I see it's one of these inscrutable pairs (question: why is a single piece of clothing referred to as a "pair"? This query includes "pairs of pants" but not "au pairs"), of which I have a few. There are a few pairs in the drawer but not a lot, and since I only wear them for dates, or the prospect of sex, they rest, for the most part, untroubled by my hand, which is why when I pull them out, it's like, "Oh these are nice! When did I get these? How do these work?"

So OK, now I realize there's going to be some trouble ahead, so the raised leg gets lowered; I'm going to need my balance, in fact, all my faculties if I'm ever going to get these on.

The tricky ones are the ones without the identifying tag at the back (that makes it easy!), and are small and cute, like a Russian doll's headscarf, with perhaps some ruffles. Sometimes, the little ruffles go in the front and sometimes they go in the back, so here's me, turning it back and forth, back and forth, trying to figure it out.

Say I choose putting the ruffle in the front. Ok, I've made a commitment. That leaves those three holes. And you'd think it'd be obvious, the pelvis on (most) women being slightly larger than her thighs. But we're dealing with a thong here, isn't that the thing David used to slay Goliath? (And what was David doing with a pair of women's underwear? Was Goliath standing there thinking the same thing? "What the hell, Dave, where did…" THWACK!) And it's meant for war. It's meant to baffle and lull its enemy into a false sense of security by its tiny flimsy little self, cute, sweet, weak. But man, it is powerful. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

So back to the triangle. Now I've got a front, and a back (probably) and I know your ass is supposed to sort of be exposed a little in the back, so I'm thinking the back part of the material should be kind of smaller than the front… but not on this pair. This pair, every way you turn it, you have the same amount of material. You've got about one inch of material on each of the three sides and so even though I have a back and a front, I'm spinning them around and around, like a guy spinning plates, really, or like a girl trying to get into a game of Double-Dutch, trying to figure out how do I get in.

After a while, I just stop spinning, sigh and climb in anywhere, just so I can get dressed. I have, on occasion, felt that weirdness you feel (or women feel), when you've got your underwear on sideways, where you can't take quite a full step over to the dresser, because something's pulling on your… parts. Since I'm not a regular thong-wearer, sometimes I just chalk this up to: this is the way these things feel, and this tightness in the wrong (or right) places, is just part of the deal, as is feeling the material of your jeans on your bare butt and trying to remember if you put underwear on at all, since it seems nothing is coming between "you and your Calvin's" if you know what I mean.

But sometimes I have to go to the mirror and look, because it's the only way I can confirm my suspicion that all is not right with the world, or at least with my panties, which, at 6:30am in your bedroom is where your world starts.

And yes, there I am, looking unsexy, ridiculous even, with the little hanky sort of listing to the side, with the middle part really taut across my belly, and on the left side, the material kind of puckering out because I've stuck my leg in the part where the whole body is supposed to go. If you've ever seen one of those ads for weight loss where the formerly fat guy climbs into one leg of his old gigantic pants, that's sort of what this looks like.

This is not a good look. Even alone, just you, it's not a winner. When the ruffles are going kind of vertical but on a slant, instead of parallel to the floor, this is a problem. So I take 'em off and start again, and, it has happened on more than one occasion, sometimes when I put them on the second time, they're still wrong!

And that, sir, is why I was late to the meeting.

My Boyfriend is Waiting But My Hands Are Still Wet: a Tragedy in the Theater Bathroom

T'was a date that I wanted to happen and did

With a man whose attentions for which I did bid

Using sweetness and batting of eyelids so coated

In make-up that friends of mine nodded and noted,

I couldn't lift up my own eyelids to see,

The person across in the mirror: it was me.



The lipstick I wore was so pretty and pink,

It said on the advert there'd ne'er be a kink

In approaching a man for his favor to seize,

For as soon as they saw it they'd ask me to "Please,

Kiss me, I beg you!" it said "Guaranteed!"

(And cost me just twenty-two bucks, a small bleed).



So ready I was for the man of my dreams,

That I shaved my legs twice with a number of creams,

And my underarms too, so that they were as bare

T'was if I'd made use of that product called "Nair",

Which stunk to high heaven if one can remember

And always left fuzz on your grill and your fender.



So next up was choosing the outfit to wear,

Something sheerly seductive to lure to the lair,

This man who I'd wanted for more than a week,

Since the first time we'd met and I'd had just a peek

At his talent at kissing which made my face blush.

In fact, in 8 days, I'd developed a crush.



So into the closet I plunged with a passion,

To find the right outfit, no slave me, to fashion!

For when it is up to a girl to seduce,

The clothing one picks must not bag or be loose.

The tighter it fits is the key to the night:

If you cannot breathe, then you've got it just right.



And find it I did! This white blouse made of cotton,

For peasants intended, but that was forgotten

Since women of urban adventure did pick

This pattern for access so blatant and quick,

That neither of you had to wait for too long

To begin the concerto where sex is the song.



I paired it along with a skirt that was slim

(even though my lush hips made the look somewhat grim),

But paired, the two bits set me up for the role;

The sum of these parts, just as great as the whole.

And the very last touch was just that: of perfume,

Like a Siren, this man was to face me: his doom.



The doorbell did ring right on time; I did note

That perhaps he was as happy as me to be smote

By a partner whose skills were so obvious to see,

That perhaps he'd spent 8 days too, thinking of me,

Because that's the best way to approach the first date:

With a hunger and wonder and lust that can't wait.



So open I did (just the door - don't be crude),

Since the guy was outside, and not one to be rude,

I invited him in (the apartment - you pervs),

Having had two white wines just to settle my nerves.

He had eyes just for me (I thanked God, since I noted

The dining room table with dust it was coated…).



And thus it began just as well as I'd hoped

For it seemed into trouble we'd gladly been roped.

It almost seemed pointless to go out to the show,

Since watching most everything else we would know,

That the hero and girlfriend would bond at the end.

Let's just stay home! For themselves they could fend!



But no, the whole point is sweet torture of course;

All the petting and leaning and sexual Code Morse,

(Or at least that's what women are wont to pursue;

For the best way to keep the attraction brand new

Is to drag it as long as one possibly can.

And that is the difference twixt woman and man.)



So off we did go, to the subway we entered,

But toward one another, our eyeballs were centered.

And even though people did bump us and shove,

If you'd looked at we two, you'd have thought "They are in love!"

And finally to the theatre we came,

With hands copping feels (that's the name of the game).



So for hours (just two), we sat close in the dark,

Sharing popcorn and bloodlust and fire and spark,

Touching elbows and fingers and shoulders and thighs,

But respectably so, noting neighboring eyes,

As Solo and Kylo did banter and weave,

And explosions and battles did rumble and heave.



(Just as much as our hearts in our mutual chests;

If they'd read our two minds, we'd be under arrest.)

And so finally, FINALLY, credits do roll,

'Cause the heat and our passion have taken their toll;

He can barely stand up, and me too, I'm not well

(If we're Catholic at this point, we're going to hell...).



So wanting to wash up (from popcorn, my dears!),

I head to the bathroom, to check out the mirrors,

And fix my ridiculous hair since I know

That my partner has mussed it (we were in the last row),

And to pee and prepare for the evening to come,

Anticipation for which caused my body to hum.



And so I did all of those things that I said,

Left my stall to wash hands and to check out my head,

When the worst thing a person can see in that room,

Did appear in my sight, dragging me into gloom.

Instead of the towels of paper you see,

Were those fucking hand blowers that really irk me!



They show up in bathrooms; the last thing you'd wish

For they are as useful as bikes to a fish.

You can stand there with only two drops on your hand

And the blower will blow it all over the land,

But it won't dry you off, because that's not its job

For it only makes noise, like a torch-bearing mob.



And so, there I was, holding hand into space,

Cooking flesh for no reason, as always the case,

And waiting and waiting for drops to disperse,

Which is part of the battle and part of the curse.

Just amazed at the ultimate nothing it dries,

And resenting the option to wipe on my thighs.



So now it's been minutes and longer I fear,

I've lost track of time, in my battle in here,

With the man of my dreams tapping toes right outside,

Yet I can't come out til my hands I have dried.

I'm mad at these things! Wreck my life, will they now?

For decades they've dithered, and I've made it my vow…



… to not let this thing get the better of me,

Yes, I'll stand here as long as the bathroom is free,

Wasting energy, time and the patience of folks

Gathered round with their own hands, awaiting for pokes,

In the air blast which nothing it does, take my word!

So long have I stood there, I feel like a nerd.



And slowly the bathroom does empty of others

No sisters are left (and there never were brothers),

Still shaking and waving my hands at this thing,

‘Til tears in the corners of my eyes do sting.

For I realize that 45 minutes have passed,

And who wouldn’t wonder why his girl is last.



And think as I do of this handsome young man

With blue jeans and white shirt and lovely firm hand,

A-waiting out there as concessions do close,

And he’s getting bored now, and beginning to doze.

But still in the palm of my hands I do find

That the moisture is clinging; to me it does bind.



And finally lights flicker off in the halls,

And all the employees depart with fond calls,

To each other, “is everyone out of this place?”

“Ah, no,” they respond, “there’s a nut in no haste,

To retreat from the bathroom where her hands are wet

From the useless devices in there, I’ll just bet.”



And just as the last light is ready to dim,

I give up the battle so hungry for him

And that body be-clothed in that fitted white shirt,

That I wipe off my hands at the end of my skirt.

And so I emerge worse for wear and still damp

To an empty theatre, a-glow with one lamp.



For my date has decided that this was enough,

After waiting one hour, he's left in a huff,

Thinking I was the one who had cast him aside,

When in fact in my mind I’d imagined the ride

That I’d hoped we would share to the end of the wire.

And so this is the reason I hate the Hand-dryer.

I like him. Him? Not so much. Pt. 2

We were awkward, but me more than he. He only seemed to be playing the part of the awkward guy for my benefit. In fact, I felt that he had reviewed me, found me acceptable and was settling in to see how I did for the rest of what he needed to evaluate. Would I be smart and sassy? Clever and quick with a comeback? Would I be too sweet? Or too forward? Would I touch him too soon, or seem repressed and reserved – too prim? What was he looking for? I could be nothing but myself because as intuitive as I am, I didn’t know. I started asking questions because his online profile was too vague to get a handle on him. What had happened with his wife? I knew he was divorced. He’d been married for 28 years. 28 years! What had I been doing all that time? Dating, going to grad school, working, dating, moving, dating, writing, dating. Lots of men, so few I cared about that I’d begun to think there was something wrong with my heart.