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.

Short Skirts to Stretchy Pants

Sunday, on a whim, I wore high heels to church. The next time I have a bright idea like that, I’ll just go ahead and slash my Achilles tendons with a machete and drive tenpenny nails into my feet.

There was a time I could keep up with the latest fashion trends, but now that I’ve discovered stretchy pants and flip flops, I shy away from clothing choices that cling tighter than a six-year old in the cereal aisle. When I was in high school I had skirts so short my daddy put police tape around the bottom. I wore halter tops that showed more skin that a whole bucket of the Colonel’s original recipe. And I had pants tight enough to cut off the blood supply to my boyfriend’s heart. I knew I was ready for school every morning when Mom clutched her chest and shrieked, “Are you going to wear THAT?”

No, Mom, this outfit was designed to throw off the paparazzi.

Now that that I’ve reached the age when I have to consider the possibility that bending over to tie my shoes could result in the use of my health insurance, I don’t feel the need to indulge in garments that would garner the interest of bondage enthusiasts. I’m just thankful if my clothes cover any body parts that might be offensive to passers by. I also take into consideration whether pictures of me dressed for the day might inspire a record number of hits on You Tube or win the big money on Funniest Home Videos. In that case thong underwear would just be cruel to those who love me most.

Granted, you’re more likely to find my signature look on a donations jar than splashed across the pages of Cosmo, but as long as I don’t frighten small children or incite stampeding among wandering herds of mall rats, I’m not likely to check in with the Queer Eye guys for fashion tips.

This morning I appeared at breakfast dressed for work. My gray stretchy pants took a marked detour around my midsection, causing them to stop a bit short of Son One's soccer socks, the only pair I could find that matched. If I hadn't left my trifocals in the dishwasher again, I might have noticed the gravy stains forming a connect the dots pattern in the shape of a pork chop on my shirt before the dog sniffed my sleeve looking for a snack. And as long as I leaned forward a little, nobody could tell I’d had a C-section.

Son Two’s cereal spoon hovered in midair like a Southern mosquito on a summer afternoon. He regarded me gravely, “Mom are you gonna wear that?”

“Since when do you take an interest in my clothes?”

“Since you decided to wear Pop's shirt, Ryan's socks, and my sweatpants.”

Well, thank goodness. I was afraid it was MY clothes that were out of style.