You are in a good mood. Which is always nice. It's time to get dressed for that birthday party. You are eight months pregnant and it has become harder to find something to wear. You try on a few options. None quite works. You zero in on a black sweater with a big neck. It looks fine. Maybe even better than fine. And then you see them. Your skinny maternity jeans. The tiny ones. You are brave. You say aloud, I am going to do it. I'm going to try those suckers on.
And they fit! They fit just as they did at the beginning. When there was barely a bump. You pose in front of the mirror, smug and satisfied. Maybe you are all belly. Could very well be.
You arrive at the party. Scatter hellos and hugs. Your youngest girl says words you've been wanting her to say. I have to go potty! And she is just two, so young, so advanced, and you feel a stab of pride and lead her away. Off to the potty! You announce. And you place her up on that white perch and she does it. A mini triumph. And then it's your turn. You sit there, pants down and hostage, as your little creature unlocks the door. Wait! you croon. Not yet!
You jump up. You wipe off. You yank those sexy jeans up. And you hear it.
You know. But still you look. Down. At the vast rip right down the crotch. The noteworthy window of white skin. You panic. Your little creature dances and smiles. You look around the pretty powder room. Brainstorm. You feel air on your inner thigh. You look at your sweater, already stretched and stretch it some more. As far down as it will go. It just gets there. Hiding the hole.
You open the door. You walk out. One hand holds that of your little girl and the other pulls that sweater down. You tiptoe to your trusted other. I have a situation. A smile comes. You have no choice. You spend two hours embarrassed. And hoping not to hear that sound again. Praying no one sees.
Then it is dark. Little faces are covered with frosting. The party is over. You say goodbyes and thank yous, still tugging. In the car, you let go, and you see it. The patch of pasty white glowing in the night. You smile. Now you smile. And you decide. That it was not you. Not at all. It was the jeans. They have been worn and washed too many times. The fabric was weathered and weak and you moved too fast. It was simply the perfect storm for shame. Right.
You sit there in silence, still smiling, wondering if anyone saw. A story, you say. This is a story. And I will tell it. Because it is funny and I am human.
And so. Even though you are embarrassed, so embarrassed, you do. First you change into your loyal leggings. Then you tell it. Word by word. Rip by rip. Smiling the whole time.
Have your pants ever split? Have you ever experienced a similarly embarrassing moment? Please tell your stories and make me feel better. If you happened to catch a glimpse of my inner thigh last Saturday, I sincerely apologize. It won't happen again :)