The Day I Learn to Wear Undies

Mama Kat hosts a writers workshop. This is my chosen assignment. Topic: Show us something you wore.

The Day I Learn to Wear Undies

...at least to work anyway. Some may know, I'm a custom faux and mural painter. I love my job. I get to be creative almost every single day. AND I get paid for it.

It's not uncommon to find me on a job site that is a new build or a remodel. On those days, there are any number of strange people also working (read: Hot Guys) around the site.  All day long I bend, kneel, lay on the floor, go up and down ladders and so on. I realized very early on that my job, mainly the way I move around to do my job, leads to a lot of wedgies.

My simple solution? Just don't wear underwear. Because to pull my creeping draws outta my arse is something I find very awkward in a public setting. Just as awkward as picking ones nose or farting in a room full of young construction (hot) guys.

Thank God, yesterday was not a construction site day. The only dude on site was my brother, who I do most of my sub-contracting for.

As I was moving along the floor, doing some work on the baseboards, I noticed my ass suddenly got very cold. Immediately I thought I'd sat on a wet rag or something. Imagine my horror when I reached back to feel my wet jeans and instead came in contact with skin. Ass skin! Because of course I was not wearing underwear.

Panic set in. We were in a clients house. The clients were home along with their young grandchild. I didn't have on a long shirt. There were no spare clothes in my car. Everyone was going to see my BUTT!

Fast forward about 30 seconds and you would have found me standing naked, from the waste down, in the clients bathroom desperately trying to mend my torn pants with painter tape. There I was praying they wouldn't walk in, because of course the lock on that door didn't work, to find me defiling their designer bathroom. All while listening to my brother laugh his ass off at me.

The demise of my favorite work pants led to a lunch time wardrobe change in the form of hitting up the thrift store near by. The whole drive over there I prayed they had something with the tags still on them that would be even close to my size. I would put money on the fact that thrift stores do not wash their donations. And I'd rather wear my torn jeans that risk someone elses crotch crud touching my skin.

I was successful, in finding a pair of elastic waist khakis and they were only 2 sizes too big for me. But hey at least then I wouldn't risk splitting the ass out of them.




You can play along too if you want. Just go visit Kat for the skinny.