Have you ever walked out of a place of business and forgotten your panties inside? I have.
You know, I could probably just leave this post at that sentence, but I think I shall regale you this tale of ignored intimates.
When the weather gets warmer and the jeans get replaced with shorts and Capri pants, I get a weekly airbrush tan. Yes. I said it. My tan is fake. (And so is my melanoma.) I would typically go get my tan on during my lunch break, so I kept a tote bag with a bathing suit and flip flops and other whatnots in my car.
The tanning salon is located on a very busy thoroughfare in the little town I work in. It sits alongside a one-way street across from a bank and a car wash. Needless to say, the place sees it's fair share of traffic.
One on particularly hot afternoon, I had gone to my standing airbrush appointment. This day was no different than any of the other. I went in, changed from my scrubs to my bathing suit, got my tan, and changed back into my scrubs to head back to work.
The bank was bustling with people on their lunch breaks waiting in line at the drive-thru. The car wash was just as busy with every stall occupied. And, as if the streets of the little town weren't already busy enough, there was a crew from the state highway department repairing a pot hole which had slowed traffic down.
I pranced to my car proudly showing off my freshly bronzed skin. I turned the air conditioner on full blast, and subsequently had my stereo blasting my favorite classic rock station. I did what any self respecting female does the minute she gets into a car, and flipped down my visor to look at myself in the mirror. Lookin' good! I backed out of my parking spot, and waiting at the end of the parking lot to make my way onto the street.
I heard some yelling from outside, but with all the noise from my a/c and cranked up stereo, I just figured it was one of the road workers or someone at the car wash.
And then I glanced in my rear view mirror.
There running out the door of the salon, was the cute little southern woman that does my air brush tan. She was the one doing all the yelling. She was waving something above her head. I chuckled at the sight of her, and then it hit me - she was coming toward me. I turned the radio down and I could hear her with my windows still up screaming: STACEY!!! YOUR PANTIES!!! STACEY!!! YOU FORGOT YOUR PANTIES!!! I watched in horror as she ran all the way to my car waving my forgotten panties over her head yelling at me.
I rolled my window down and she handed my underroos to me. I immediately scanned the situation, hoping that no one had seen me. Nope. El wrongo. Everyone, and I do mean everyone from the guys with the road crew, to the car wash patrons, and I'm pretty sure the bank tellers, too - was looking. Staring even. Not that I blame them, I would be looking to, I will admit. This was not the kind of attention I was hoping for after getting my tan. As if The Panty Parade wasn't already embarrassing enough, the pot hole repair had me blocked in and I had to WAIT before I could leave. I'm sure I only sat there for a minute or two, but when you account in the Embarrassment Factor it actually equates to about an hour and a half.
So, if you ever hear a story about someone chasing a car down waving panties over her head, there's a possibility it's about me.
At least I wasn't wearing granny panties that day.