Who: Me, starring as a carefree party animal of today and classy professional woman of tomorrow
Where: Hip/young apartment complex in middle Tennessee
When: Standing still, if only for a moment while I live my young life to the fullest – eh hem, night
With fervor for life and a carefully composed “sext” in draft waiting to be sent to my puka-shell wearing love interest Brett, I jaunted through the door of the on-site laundry facilities at my hip/young apartment complex, and out into my oyster world. Mesh pop-up hamper in hand, because I’m far too youthful to be dragged down by some dowdy wicker basket, I was met by the overwhelming certainty that it is only when you are young and borderline-attractive, that life is worth living.
Just as my mental focus shifted from thoughts of gin body shots to how to get the perfect Snooky poof, the scent of Downy April Fresh dryer sheets permeated by nostrils. Overwhelming to my senses, I feared I might trip over my toe ring and scrape my fresh spray tan on the hip/young pavement outside the building. Utilizing chic yoga breathing methods I regained my
balance. Carefree and reckless, I shrugged the incident off with a giggling sigh. Silly, me. Just enjoying my youth too much!
As I skipped back to my apartment, limber in limbs and life, I felt a slight tickling sensation in my left nostril. The scent of Downy had not run away with my dreams and wild imagination, but had instead initiated some sort of Rave in my nose. Always ready for a party, I welcomed the sensation with a double-handed finger heart formation, and began to think of all the positive, life-affirming tweets I could send to my peeps when I finally returned to my iPad.
But as I took my first step onto the
sidewalk outside of my building, the Downy took over me like the recreational line of coke I did earlier with my friend, Bella. Suddenly my body was in the hands of God, my muscles tensing, and my eyes closing, unable to avoid the inevitable.
What just happened?
I stood still on the pavement in a silent terror, the only sound my Katy Perry ringtone indicating the start of the newest episode of Jersey Shore. But I could focus on “the shore” no more. There was wetness. A minimal, miniscule, barely noticeable feeling of wetness. Had I…? I looked down at my terry cloth shorts. I couldn’t have…
Anxious, I rushed into my apartment, dropping my keys and running to the bathroom. I pulled my leopard-print thong down to my knees, revealing not only my stunning bikini wax, but a slight trace of urine on the white padding of my panties.
“Well, ‘you’re-in’ trouble now, generic Generation Y-er,” I whispered, dramatically to myself. “Today you are, as they say, 23 going on 90.”
The girl who wants to dance with no pants on, Holla!