It’s official: God Hates Me

In my dual quests to 1. Meet a Man Who Is Actually Date-able and 2. Mission to Shut My Mother Up About Grandkids Already, I went out on Wednesday night with another eHarmony guy. (I believe this brings my eHarmony total to 378 failed dates? Dr. Neil Patrick Warren, I want my money back.) Anyway, we met for dinner at a restaurant that is situated at the tippy top of the Big Hill and just before the Medium Hill starts its ascent. In the interest of looking my best, I decided to take the Metro one stop past my usual and walk downhill, thus avoiding any potential deodorant failures due to enthusiastic uphill climbing. Problem was somewhere between getting on the Metro and getting off, the elastic in my pantyhose gave out. I’m not totally sure what happened. Maybe it due to the age of the pantyhose, maybe it was due to my ever expanding ass. Who knows? Point is, they no longer stayed up on their own and thanks to my Casper-like, hairy legs, taking the things off was not an option.

My hope was to make it to the restaurant bathroom and remedy the situation by tucking the pantyhose into the top of my underwear. With luck and minimal movement, I thought that might keep them up for the duration of the date. Yet, I should have known that wasn’t how this would go down. After all, Date Humiliation is my middle name. I did manage to make it out of the train and up an escalator before top of the pantyhose started to pass mid-thigh. At that point, I had to make a pit stop and pull them up. It’s never occurred to me to find out if Metro stations have public restrooms, but Wednesday night, I really wanted to find a Metro Help Person and ask. I might have held out for one but this was an emergency situation and I was on a tight schedule, so I just decided to go stand in a corner over by the ticket machines and hike the darn things. Keep in mind, I was still visible from pretty much anywhere in the Metro station and the train was still unloading. Loads of people saw this pull-up procedure. I can safely say that is the highlight of my Metro riding experiences to date.

After being sufficiently embarrassed, I was on my way. I made it out of the Metro and almost to the restaurant without having to do another re-adjust. But despite my best efforts, by the time I had arrived, the pantyhose were once again mid-thigh. I asked the hostess if I could use the bathroom, but encountered a strict “no table, to toilet” policy. Date Boy hadn’t arrived and I didn’t want to commit to a table without him. After all, the way my day was going, I’d request a table outside and he’d have a phobia involving patio furniture or something. So, in desperation, I glanced around. Across the street was a big, brick gate thing leading into a condo development. With lovely big, brick pillars I could hide behind and adjust in peace. Across the street I went.

Five minutes later, I had the pantyhose situation under control. Two minutes after that, I was back at the restaurant waiting for Date Boy. Finally, another three minutes passed and he was there. Laughing. At me.

Him (chuckling in a manner I didn’t appreciate): You know that window over there?

Me: The one that’s part of the condo? Behind the pillar?

Him: Yeah, that one. Well, it’s mine.

Me (blushing and mumbling): Oh God.

Him: Ants in your pants?

Me (in a whisper): Pantyhose malfunction.

It went downhill from there.


2 Responses to “It’s official: God Hates Me”

  1. Wasabi: Modern Japanese Death « Who Invented Roses Says:

    […] to meet and marry Michael Rosenbaum or Leonardo DiCaprio. Or both of them. Seriously. After all this and especially this and maybe this Cupid owes me big […]

  2. Wherein I go crazy and enter a contest « Who Invented Roses Says:

    […] my pantyhose went tragically […]

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