Is there anyone out there whose mom didn't tell you to wear nice looking undergarments in case you get in an accident and wind up in the hospital? Mine might have mentioned it once or twice but the thought of trained medical professionals viewing my tattered underwear as I bled out my life somehow never really inspired much fear. I mean, I figured if that ever happened I'd have bigger problems, y'know?
What she should have said was this: 'You never know when your oldest pair of underwear will somehow wind up in your bag of Target returns.'
That might have gotten my attention.
Yes, somehow my oldest, tattiest pair of underwear did find its way into my bag of Target returns yesterday. They were freshly washed but had recently fallen victim to Ralf's annual attempt to do a load of laundry, which had left them an unusual and unsavory rust color.
Incidentally, I still have several pairs of high school jeans so I'm unlikely to throw away perfectly good underwear just because they're really sad looking and some ambulance driver might laugh at them.
BTW, I have nice underwear, too. Just not in my Target return bag.
They guy processing my returns whipped them out of the bag and held them up at eye level as he thought about what they could possibly be. To judge by the blank expression on his face he was still wondering as I snatched them back and stuffed them into my purse. Then he seemed to get it.
'We sell new underwear here if you need any,' he informed me helpfully.
'Thanks. I know.'
'Right over there.' He gestured.
'OK. Got it. Thanks.'
'I think they're even on sale.' This comment was followed by one of those male shrugs that are supposed to communicate, 'I'm just saying.'
I wanted to stalk off huffily but he still owed me money.
I guess it could have been worse.
Could it have been worse?