You never know what's around the corner

Today was an average day. Average work, average food. I was walking after work, as per usual, for the project (I'm just shy of 100 miles now). I went from my office through Soho and the West Village to Chelsea. I happened to pass by Loehmann's and figured I'd check it out since I'd never been there. I've shed a some pounds recently, I'm in the market for new pants. The ones I wear to work are starting to look like I picked 'em up at MC Hammer's bankruptcy yard sale. After making my way quickly through three floors of disorganized racks stuffed with designer overstocks and standard department store fare, I found the petites section on the top floor. My legs are short, so I need short pants. This seems like a reasonable request, but it's pretty much impossible to buy something that fits without alteration. Their selection was small, but I found a few things to try on.

And that's when it happened. I was not warned. I was not prepared.

I took my things over to the fitting room, expecting to be shown to a stall. Instead, I'm waved around the corner into a harshly-lit communal dressing area with wall-to-wall mirrors where I was greeted by a huge white ass in a hot pink thong. I then noticed three other women in various stages of disrobing, checking themselves out and trying on their items. The room wasn't that big, so it was pretty close quarters. I briefly considered bolting, but instead set my backpack on the floor, dumped my items on the bench and took off my coat. I've been pantsless before, and I'll be pantsless again, dammit. I don't care who sees it.

But then I remembered. The underpants.

Not panties, undies or lingerie. Underpants. That's the only way to describe them. Big white brief-cut Jockeys. Can also be used as a replacement sail for a 30-foot catamaran in a pinch. I have no excuses. It's laundry time and I don't like to wear my cute panties when I'm on a walk because they crawl up big time. Have you ever tried to discreetly fix a wedgie on the street after work in Midtown in the winter? Not easy.

So there I am, frozen in position with my hand on my zipper, deciding whether to bare the least attractive underpants ever to a room full of strangers (who were, thankfully, not going to win any beauty contests). Finally, I sheepishly drop trou, hide behind the ones I'm trying on and get the job done. They fit, but just aren't that great. Same thing for the other pair. I left, having flashed Jockey for nothing, but glad I wasn't the owner of the big ol' badonkadonk in the hot pink thong.