Pick up your pants. It's time to go.

Who knew new knickers could be so hilarious?

I finally forced myself to tackle a most onerous task: I bought new undies. Though swimsuits, brassieres, and jeans generally rank higher on the scale of hateable purchases, for me this one sits squarely in the ‘put it off to the point of embarrassment’ category.

Men, roll with me for a minute here. I’m coming back for you, I promise. And to all the tactful souls who take extra care to not overshare, I know your boundary alarms are flashing red right now. To you I say, “Hold my beer.” 

First, a story. 

Right out of college, I took a job with the American Red Cross, where programming relied heavily on the support of volunteers. That is how I came to know Annie Mae Powell, an inveterate helper still active in her mid-90s. One day, she told me how she’d recently dropped her drawers on the way out of the country club. My own mother did the same once, but hers fell from a pocket where she’d inadvertently stashed them. Annie Mae’s bloomers fell from her body as she crossed the lobby, a male companion on one arm and a lady friend on the other, just slipped from her hips to her ankles without a whisper of warning. 

She explained how they all stopped, she and her friends, to contemplate the wrinkle of this indelicate situation, and how it was the man who spoke first.

“Annie Mae,” she said, mimicking him. “Pick up your pants. It’s time to go.”

“I tell you what,” she mused, after she’d stopped laughing, “I’ve had a lot of experiences in my life, and I’ve lost a lot of things, but I’ve never lost my underwear in public before.”

When, on a recent weekday, I felt some noticeable shifting east and west, and then a definitive slide father south, I thought of Annie Mae and realized I would need a few more birthdays to be able to pull off that level of wardrobe malfunction with the same panache. So, I took action.

Despite the shoddy state of existing affairs, when the replacements arrived I tossed them all in the hamper. I know how people are, and I stand behind my trust issues on this one. Given a complete disassociation from country clubs and lack of immediate need to wear a dress, I figured I was safe to carry on with business as usual for a little while longer. 

If you think I’m going to tell you that I was wrong to wait, that I was humbled by the ampleness of my indignity, I wouldn’t blame you. But that’s not where this tale is taking us. Instead, we’re rolling into the weekend like…

It is an ordinary Saturday, and I have occupied myself with ordinary doings: a class at the gym, a visit to the farmers market, a swing through the latest scuttlebutt online, a round of wash, including the perky set of skivvies, completed and hung to dry on the umbrella-style clothesline we use whenever possible.

It’s now the back side of the day, and my helpmate volunteers to gather in the laundry. When he returns to the house, basket of clean clothes propped on one hip, he sets his load on the kitchen counter and tells me that the chore was a bit more appealing than usual. Assuming he’s making a reference to the collection of fresh unmentionables, I’m surprised to see that he’s fished something else out of the pile and is now waving it in the air like a little, white muleta.

“I’m looking at this thing,” he begins, “And I’m thinking, ‘Hooo, baby! What have we got here?’”

He goes on to admit increasing intrigue and enthusiasm, his grin getting broader as he recounts the scene, right up until the moment he realizes he’s looking at a bread basket liner.

Thirty-some years together, and he’s excited about a vintage bun warmer.

The moral to this story could, arguably, be that both a new set of knickers and a lacy, old doily have all sorts of untapped potential. Or we could drum up something pithy together about big girl pants. Instead, I think the lesson here is that the sooner we learn to laugh at ourselves, the more delightful life becomes. 

~Elizabeth

I have collected countless, irreplaceable memories across my life, some of them from the mountains of North Carolina. The destruction wrought recently by Hurricane Helene has induced the kind of primal ache that emerges when your own stories get too close to tragedy. I also recognize that what happened here is orders of magnitude smaller than what some of our international brothers and sisters are facing, what creatures everywhere are facing, and I wonder if it is really okay to bypass all of that to write about something silly like this.

And then I hear the ancestors laugh. I’m sure Annie Mae, who lived to be 100, carried many burdens in many her days, but I will always remember her as a woman of joy.

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So, friends, what brings you joy? When was the last time you had a good belly laugh? Will you think of me, and Annie Mae, the next time you upgrade your undies? Let’s chat in the comments section! And to help me reach more folks, which would be an incredible boost, please ping the buttons at the top of this page to like, share, and restack this post. It really does matter.

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