You know how women's mags and teenage girly mags all have their embarrassing stories? With titles like "I started my period while wearing one of those short frilly skirts like Paris Hilton wears and I wasn't wearing panties and it was on a date with my boyfriend — and his parents!!!!"
Well, today I had a shameful moment of my own. I was at my desk, chatting with (male reporter) Colello when (male freelancer and owner of house that I sit at) Hugh came in and handed me an envelope.
"Janice says you forgot this," he said.
It's soft, I take a peek inside. Oh shit. It couldn't be a sock. No. It's undies. God knows if they're dirty or clean, I haven't opened the thing fully, I'm still reeling from embarrassment.
Colelle: "What's that?"
Me: (because the part that prevents you from telling the truth too quickly has been shorted out in my brain) "Oh! Undies!"
Colello and Alison, at the next desk over and is halfway listening in, bust a gut. At least Hugh is hard of hearing and didn't catch that. But he must have known what was in that envelope. Married people don't keep secrets, and after all, he's a former spook so he has to know everything.
I turned about three or four shades of fuchsia, but I got a pretty good laugh out of it because, after all, it's only undies. And that's the only way to save face, sometimes.
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