Foundations of Fire

*Warning! If you are a teenaged boy who lives in the approximate vicinity of the back bedroom of my house and does not allow his mother to say the word “underwear” in public, do not read the following post. To those of you who have ever gone a little wrong in the laundry room, you’ll understand the situation perfectly.

I found out I couldn’t follow directions when I was in the produce section at WalMart.

I was comparing kiwis and kumquats when I felt an unwelcome sensation in what can only be described as the area “where foundations meet the flesh.” It began as a smallish itch under the elastic band and quickly spread to the sensation of having a thousand mosquitoes trapped in the no-nonsense sections of my Fruit of the Looms. This is what it must be like when the entire New York Giants football team wears their uniform pants without running them through the rinse cycle. I began defensive slap-dance maneuvers designed to relieve the feeling that my underwear had a personal grudge against my skin.

Over by the plums, a mother pushing a toddler in her buggy popped a wheelie and crashed into a produce scale while trying to execute a U-turn.

Once my Hanes Her Way became Hanes No Way, I realized something had to be done. In an effort to soothe the beast devouring my tender skin, I danced over to my husband who was somewhat nonplussed at my glee.

“Are you that happy with the fruit?” he asked as I jitterbugged past, trying to calm the situation in the outback.

“I have an itch,” I answered, arms flailing as I executed enough moves to win the title on “So You Think You Can Dance.” I ricocheted off a display of fresh pineapples and careened into a stand of Georgia peaches.

“Is this something new?”

“No,” I answered as I jogged by, still attempting to quiet the fire without an unseemly public display. “I’ve kept it hidden from you for ten years so I could surprise you with my innermost secret in the melon section of WalMart in time for our anniversary.”

“Very thoughtful. Have we changed laundry detergent lately?”

By now I was scratching my sides like a monkey with mange. “It’s the same stuff. Just in that little bitty bottle.”

“Well you probably have enough soap in your underpants to clean a garbage barge. And you’re dancing around like a monkey.”

If he’d thrown me a banana I would have made fruit salad out of him. “Look, I’m finding out that the word hives doesn’t necessarily just apply to bees. Can we move a little faster down the solution highway?”

“Look, it’s in that little bitty bottle because it’s concentrated. Did you use the same amount as always?”

I tap danced over to look him in the face. “I used more because the measuring cup looked so little.”

“Let’s go to the household products section and indulge in a little light reading.”

Sure enough, in-depth research involving the small print on the back of the bottle of detergent (which Bill Dear read while I clogged back and forth past the bleach-added products) showed that the amount of detergent I used had the potential to turn the elastic in my underwear into a material that would defeat the Man of Steel and could be used to coerce terrorists into confessing the use of explosives, weapons of torture, and non-dairy coffee creamer.

My immediate problem was solved with a foxtrot through the lingerie section where I purchased replacement garments for the trip home where I promised to be more conscientious when it comes to reading directions.

Except on those pesky Sara Lee boxes that indicate the contents is intended for more than a single serving.