When Fearless Leader asked me if I’d like to share how much of a dumbass I am with y’all, I almost bounced outta my shorts with excitement! Of course, if you know me, you probably wouldn’t find that exactly out of the ordinary, considering I have a subconscious bent towards serial public indecency.
I Started Young
It all started in my teens with The Summer of the Swimsuit. (Yeah, it was bad enough my family named it.) The suit in question was a modest one piece that I wore with great...oh, who cares. It was a perfectly modest swimsuit, right up until it made contact with water, turning the white spandex into a wet tissue paper wrapping.
At least, that’s how it looked in every single picture from that summer. I still feel the need to crawl under a blanket and hide whenever I think about climbing the ladder to the high dive and the poor people in line behind (and under) me.
I’m leaving the college years out of this, since there was alcohol involved. (Unless we’re talking about the times I stood on a friend’s roof and flashed the main drag during rush hour traffic. Which we’re not, so let’s just move on.)
Babies And Flashing Go Hand-In-Hand
As the Offspring began arriving, I had a few peaceful, law abiding years when nothing popped out or peeked through. Mainly because I rarely left the house. But that all changed after the birth of my daughter.
It was a hot Summer and my Mother had given me this cotton jumper that was just perfect for lounging, chasing the boys, taking the kids to the park, or doing yard work. The truth is, I looked like a teal Oompa Loompa, but I was cool and comfortable and it was loose enough to cater to my hatred of those most binding of torments; underwear.
It wasn’t until the end of the Summer that my Landlady casually mentioned that my perfectly respectable jumper was as see through as single layer gauze when the Sun hit it. All those hours spent weeding the flower beds in the front yard; the FRONT yard, that faced our busy street? Had been yet another 90 day stretch of serial exhibitionism.
Can I just point out how hard it is to look your neighbors in the eye after realizing they’ve more than likely starred in an “eye” of a different sort?
I won’t say our move across town had anything to do with the embarrassment, since having three small children and another on the way leaves little energy for that, but it definitely was a relief to find myself in a new surroundings where no one knew my name, let alone my penchant for avoiding undergarments.
As the arrival of our last Offspring grew closer, I’d long since traded in the jumper (burnt it may be a little closer to the truth) for those light weight, ankle length, one-size-fits-most skirts that were so popular in the 90’s. They expanded with my belly and were conservative enough to hide my flasher past. Then the Village Pantry happened. (Ya know, I have noticed that quite a few posts here involve convenience stores, which makes me think they might very well be the vortex of all that is evil in the world.)
There I was, minding my own business in the parking lot of the VP. I was bent over, buckling my daughter into her car seat when I felt a certain...breeze. And a tickle on the back of my neck. Then the unthinkable happened; I realized that a sudden gust of wind had lifted my lightweight skirt UP and OVER my head!
I jerked up and spun around to hide my shame, but it was too late. You see, when I turned I ended up face to face with the car parked in the space right beside us. Or, I should say, I ended up face to face with the man sitting inside the car. He had his fist damn near stuffed inside of his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter. (Did I failed to mention that I just happened to pick THAT day to skip laundry and go, shall we say, commando?)
The Peep Show Continues
Through the years there were other “unfortunate” accidents. For instance, the skirt that all but disappeared when we ended up caught in the middle of a July downpour. At a Melissa Etheridge concert. Surrounded by every Lesbian in a five State radius. (Hey, at least I was wearing underwear that time!)
Or the day I was alone in the house, in the middle of the day, and the neighbors were all at work. So of COURSE I thought nothing about stepping out of a nice, long soak in the tub and wandering into the kitchen for a cool drink, wearing nothing but a towel (on my head) and a smile.
You guessed it peoples, as I turned around to head back to the bathroom, via the courtesy of close housing and bad window placement, I found myself eye to eye with the guy next door who had decided to save some bucks and run home for lunch. (I’m not sure this one counts, since it wasn’t exactly public, just your average, everyday indecency.)
When we moved half a State away, I was sure part of what I’d left behind was my shameful exhibitionist ways. By last Fall, I was comfortable enough in my decency to even bend over to mess with some flowers at the edge of our driveway. I had no idea whatsoever WHY passing cars were randomly honking, but being the good, country neighbor that I am, I simply smiled and waved.
It was only after I went in the house (an hour later) that I realized Hubby’s boxer-pants I’d “borrowed” had developed a ginormous hole. Right in the seat of the flippin’ pants. (I refuse to discuss any possible not wearing of undergarments with this one. The shame is still too new.)
You see folks, I’m not just a dumbass, I’ve turned it into a lifelong career path. Oh sure, all this could maybe be chalked up to a series of seriously unfortunate events, if it wasn’t for the lack of underwear involvement in all but one. THAT, my friends, is what makes me a TRUE dumbass; my lack of learning my damn lesson about remembering to don the stupid granny panties.
Thank you again, Fearless Leader, for the opportunity to share my deepest, dumbassiest secrets with you and the rest of the Hoard. And thanks for always making me feel a little less of a dumbass with your updates about those far more dumbass than myself. (Mainly because they’ve all gotten busted and I’ve managed to avoid incarceration. So far. But that’s SO not the point!)
Chris (aka pixiecd) lives in Indiana with her extremely tolerant Hubby, four adult kids, and a small petting zoo of cats, dogs, ducks, chickens, and geese. She writes a humor blog, pixie.c.d., where she shares the (mis)adventures of a middle aged mom who refuses to grow up (and possesses a near pathological hatred of underwear). You can also find her goofing off on Facebook, Twitter, Google+, Pinterest, and Instagram.