If there was ever any question in
my mind of whether or not I should wear skimpy, sexy lingerie – that question
was answered with a resounding “Oh Hell No” one early, rainy morning in late
December. As if the reasons listed below were not answer enough -
1.
50+ year old grandmas should stay far…far away
from the lingerie isle. In fact, they should probably adhere to a strict
restraining order prohibiting them from loitering within 50 yards of anything remotely
resembling the lingerie isle. For the sake of all involved, some things should
forever remain secret, Victoria’s or otherwise.
2.
The disappearing bottom half – if there even is
a bottom half – usually looks like something that goes somewhere nothing ought
to go and is very likely to end up there.
3.
The uncomfortable and awkward shopping experience:
In my younger days – I’ve had occasion to shop for said sleeping attire. I
found myself standing in the lady’s unmentionables – glancing around to make
sure no one is leering around the corner – judging me. “Really lady…you
seriously think you can get away with wearing that?”
4.
The creepy guy: What’s up with the creepy guy
that ALWAYS manages to be loitering around in the underwear isle the exact same
time you are? Is it the same dude? It sure looks like the same dude. You lady’s
reading this know exactly what/who I’m talking about – you have all seen him. About
5’9, wears jeans, dirty t-shirt barely covering a little pot-belly. Mousy
brown, thinning hair – unshaven. He’s usually got his hands in his pocket “pretending”
like he’s uncomfortable that his wife is making him tag along while she shops
the full figure section. Right...have you ever actually SEEN the wife? Yeah, me
neither.
5.
Too complicated: Ever hold on of them
contraptions up? Is that the bottom? Does it even have a bottom? You have no
idea what goes over the head – which arm goes where or even if so. If you do
manage to figure out how to solve the puzzle – good luck getting the thing back
off. The whole damn thing should come with a manual.
6.
Uncomfortable: All that lace. Really? Can there
be anything scratchier than a thin piece of lace migrating to areas where lace
(or anything else) ought NOT to be? See #2. Better pick up a tub of bag-balm on
your way out. You’re going to need it.
7.
The choking hazard: No matter how many ribbons,
button, bows, snaps, zippers, Velcro or bungee you apply to this menagerie – it
will end up around your neck in the middle of the night and you will be
strangled. To death.
If the above wasn’t reason enough to stay clear of the
lingerie isle (I can’t even spell the confounded word without spell-check) – a recent,
early morning adventure on the farm sealed my non-sexy-nighty-wearing days for
good.
The previous morning I’d read a post on Facebook about a guy
whose horse was killed by a cougar. A very sad and traumatic experience for any
horse-owner. I snuggled into bed donning
my flannel lounge pants and over-sized “Great Potato Race” T-shirt I’d won, of
all places, at “The Great Potato Race” in Boise Idaho 20 years ago. The last
thing I thought of before drifting off to sleep was wondering if cougar came this
far down onto the Weiser flats.
I bolted awake by the sounds of pounding hooves and
snorting, panicked horses. It sounded like one of them ran straight across the
front deck. I lept out of bed grabbing my shotgun before my bare-feet hit the
floor. This 50+ grandma might be passed lingerie wearing days but she can still
move when she thinks her horses are in jeopardy!
I bound down the stairs and out the front door. I caught a
glimpse of one horse run past me out into the neighbor’s field to the North. I
could see one set of tracks in the soft dirt of the yard where I’d dug up the
waterline and septic earlier in the year. Only one set of tracks? Where was the
other horse? It took a few minutes for my eyes and ears to adjust. The bright moon helped.
J’Lo was still in the pasture. Jack stood across the fence from her. Escapee identified. I whistled and
called for him. Both horses came running at full speed. J’Lo had a straighter
line and shorter distance but Jack is faster. I held the gate open hoping Jack
would beat her to the gate. He did not. They hit the gate at the same time. If
J’Lo got out – I wouldn’t see those horses again until spring. I swung the gate
shut on J’Lo. Jack skid to a stop – whirled – and took off down the driveway kicking
up mud as he flew. Shit.
By this time I’d determined that if something had been
chasing them – it was gone now. I lay my shotgun on a bale of hay and ran after
Jack, ankle deep in mud from 3 straight days of rain. I whistled and called. He
turned and ran back to me scared half to death. I threw my arms around him and
realized I didn’t have a halter anywhere near. Fearing he’d take off in a panic
again I considered using my T-shirt or pajama pants as a lead – hoping like
hell none of my neighbors showed up to help. In the past, I have used a bra to
lead a wayward steed. I’m in my PJ’s – that wasn’t an option. I
know any horse gals reading this are smiling and thinking to themselves: “Been
there…done that!”
I looked down at my
bare-feet begging him not to step on them when I noticed a pink string of
baling twine caked in mud caught between my toes. Score!
With Jack back in the pasture with J’Lo– I tossed them a
flake of hay to keep them occupied. I shut the gate to the big pasture thinking
that was probably where he got out. Mud squished between my toes as I trod back
to the house. I knew I wouldn’t be able
to sleep worrying about where/how he got out. I ran inside, stuck my feet in
the bathtub to wash off most of the mud, put on boots, a jacket and grabbed a
flashlight.
I wasn’t sure what time it was – but I was fairly certain
that running around in the middle of the night with a flashlight next to my
neighbors wasn’t a great idea. Their dog didn’t thinks so, either. I walked the perimeter of the fence, avoiding
the fence nearest the neighbors to the east. I could see their horses standing
against the fence so was fairly confident he hadn’t gotten out there.
I continued walking the fence until I reached the south west
corner of my chicken house. I’d been using the area in that corner to store a
big pile of wood my neighbor cut out of his yard. It would make great firewood
next year. In the meantime – the horses had been molesting the pile and
stripping the bark and eating it. They had manage to get to the very top of the
wood-pile. I don’t know how they do it – but they do. The wood-pile is thrown
up against a short fence made of ranch panels separating the dry lot from the
smaller pasture with a fence on one side and the chicken house on the other. That
ranch panel was now wide open. How the heck did he get up there and get that
open? Did he get up there – fall over in an avalanche of firewood and crash into the fence, busting it?
Even with that fence down – he’d still be in my pasture. There
had to be another hole. I’d put a temporary panel up between my field and my
southern neighbors big enough to get a swather in come spring. That panel was
now pushed open as well. No sign of the wire I’d used to secure it. I have no
idea what or how that horse managed to get himself into such a predicament –
but there was wood – panels – pallets and other debris scattered 40 feet in every direction.
I mended the fence with pink baling twine, tossed ¼ of a
cord of wood back across the fence and headed back to the house. I stopped to
check on the horses again for any sign of an escape gone bad. Jack didn’t have
a mark on him. He pressed his big-ole’ head against my forehead like he does,
wanting to be reassured. I think the whole thing scared him worse than it did
me.
I finished washing the remainder of the mud off my feet and
crawled back in bed. The clock read 4:28 AM. I chuckled as I contemplated what “normal”
people were doing at such an hour?
As I drifted off to sleep, I was reminded of years ago. A
friend was helping shop for a piece of lingerie for my “honeymoon.” Same
awkward shopping experience as listed above. Same creepy dude hanging out in
the lady’s underwear section. Same complicated and uncomfortable looking attire
that was sure to strangle me. To Death.
I eventually found what I hoped would be a suitable, flirty
looking little number that may not have required a manual to operate. “What about
this? I asked with some trepidation. My friend took the piece from me, tossed
it on the floor and said: “There…looks great. That’s where it’s going to end up
anyway.”
The next morning I recounted the night’s adventure to my
neighbor. I’d sent him a meme I saw one
time that seemed quite fitting: “If you are my neighbor – eventually you will
see me in my pajamas in the middle of the night chasing horses.” Been there…done
that.
