From time to time in my post-college life I have waitressed at The Berry Patch to make ends meet. For those who don't know, my parents are partners in that restaurant, and have been since it began in about 1990 or so.
The following is an e-mail I sent out in August of 2002, after the first baby and just before getting pregnant the second time. I wish I could blame the incident on being pregnant, but I can't. It's all me. As for the title, well, I see a trend here, and since I do humiliating things on a regular basis with great gusto, there will likely be more where this came from. Enjoy.
My Latest Humiliation, Or, An Argument Against Thong Underwear
Well hello again.
Been a while since I publicly humiliated myself (at least, any more than I do every waking day of my life just by showing up), and I'm facing my fear head-on to reduce The Cringe Factor. I'm telling y'all about it, whether you like it or not. So there.
In an effort to reduce ironing (have you ever tried to iron clothes with a toddler hanging on you?) I devised an ingenious plan: Wear clothes that are WAY too tight. Those wrinkles don't know what hit 'em.
So Friday night, an hour before heading in to town to pour coffee and schlep burgers at The Berry Patch, I crammed my Nutty Professor-sized hiney into a size 12 black skirt I've had for years but never worn. "Honey, be honest," I pleaded. "Are people gonna point and stare at the human sausage?" I'm sure this sentence has been asked before, and it makes even the most macho man run screaming into the night. But I had to be sure.
"Why, no, dear," replied Good Ol' Chas. "You look great." Brownie points. Hubby treats. Gold stars.
"Well, just in case I turn blue from sucking in my stomach, I'm bringing a pair of pants to change into." I wasn't really too worried, because my apron covers my stomach nicely. My stomach . . .
About an hour into my shift, my co-worker, Gale, commented that I looked nice that night. I told her about making Chas evaluate my ensemble, we both laughed about it, and I turned and walked away. "Wait!" hissed Gale. "You've got a problem..."
Have you ever noticed how flimsy the stitching can be in rayon clothes? I don't recommend testing its tensile strength the way I did. Imagine Anna-Nicole Smith* in Kate Moss's skirt; not a pretty picture. But, as I hurriedly took off my apron and wrapped it around my posterior for the trip out to the car to fetch my "just-in-case" pants, I realized with horror that I was wearing -- you guessed it -- a thong. As in undies. For those of you unfamiliar with this garment, see "The Big Fat Book of Girlie Stuff," Chapter 37, "Why Thongs?" pages 345-353.
So I am left to wonder, which of my customers saw more of me than I ever intended? When someone says, "You have a nice smile," do I say thank you or clobber him? Was that coin innocently dropped at my feet, or was the cook playing quarters with me?
I feel better already. Now it's YOUR nightmare. Peace.
*She was alive and hefty at the time of this original writing.