Posts Tagged ‘underwear’

True Confessions

March 26, 2014

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Look, I’ve got to get a few things off my chest, but you have to promise this stays between you and me.

You: Uh….you’re putting this on the Internet.

Me: Confession #1 – what’s the Internet?

I Lie

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A classic case of sun rash.

Lying for coworkers. Natalie and I used to work together as legal assistants. After she left her abusive boyfriend, she went through a “make-out slut” phase[1]. One morning she showed up to work covered in hickeys after a close encounter with a human vacuum cleaner. Natalie told everyone she had a “sun rash.” I stood by her in her time of need, and proclaimed loudly to anyone who would listen, “Ah man, sun rashes are the worst and also they exist. I have totally had like 4 cases of ‘the rashes’ in my life. Let’s all give Natalie some pie.”

Lying to coworkers. Whenever I have to choose between being nice and being honest, I usually pick being nice. If someone has a new hairdo, I tell them I like it, when really I usually feel nothing more than, “I notice you look mildly different.” If someone at work is wearing a loud outfit, I tell her I like it simply to avoid the social awkwardness of gaping and pointing.

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Lookin’ good, Deb!

Faking a Pregnancy?? But I’m already married! My senior year in college, I landed a pseudo-acting gig at some fancy schmancy woodsy resort in upstate New York for the summer. I was supposed to lead people around the place pretending it was the 1800s and that I was a new Irish immigrant who had escaped the potato famine. But I had second thoughts. I had recently married, and wanted to follow Didier to France instead of languishing alone in the woods. I waited and waited until the last possible minute to get out of it. Garnering all my cowardice, I sent the resort an email that I was preggers and couldn’t come. The resort dude called and I made Didier answer the phone.

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Shame on you, Wife-Child!

For 40 odd minutes, Didier had to deflect the persuasions of the resort guy – “We can make this work! She can get all the prenatal care she wants here in the woods!” After he finally hung up, Didier wouldn’t even look at me. I learned years later, as we were breaking up, that Didier had never forgiven me for my indiscretion, and was “disappointed in me” for lying and making him complicit in the lie, even though the whole point of my charade was so that I could be with him. He did have the moral high ground, though, having only cheated on me once in our five year relationship.[2]

I Cheat

First, let me just explain that I grew into my morals over time. I would never ever ever have cheated in college or law school, where I actually gave a shit. But before I became the paragon of morality you see before you: lazy desperate times called for desperate measures.

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Me, being smart and popular.

Original sin. School and me go way back. School was good to me, and I was good to it. In grade school, I was always smarter than everybody — like way, way smarter. That’s why I was able to make so many friends.

Picture it, first grade: there I was, flying high without a care in the world- when all of a sudden I was stopped dead in my tracks. Teach gave us the math worksheet from hell. There was no way to solve it, it was completely inscrutable. I looked around for sympathy. Everyone else was breezing through it. Even Ryan Thibodeau, who sat behind me and drooled on his desk. Time kept ticking by, and there I sat, internally pissing my pants. Teach tried to help me, but to no avail. Finally, she let everyone go to recess, and I was left behind to complete the assignment, abject and alone. Ryan’s finished worksheet winked at me seductively from his desk. Was this a setup? Were there spies everywhere, just waiting for me to take the bait? Or had Teach taken pity on me as I agonized futilely over this veritable Da Vinci Code? Did she want me to cheat? I concluded that she did, and respected her decision.

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Er, did I say jazz? Blues! I meant blues!

Muddy, Muddy Waters. 9th grade was my most morally bankrupt year. I was too busy growing a pair of kick ass boobs to give a crap about my immortal soul.  One time Mrs. Cross was forcing us to read biographies and then write book reports. Gross. I was too lazy to read a whole book, so I found some liner notes in a Muddy Waters CD that contained a short biography. Not short enough, though, for my delicate constitution; I just copied it and called it a day. Mrs. Cross called me up after class to have me explain my obvious plagiary. I channeled the State of Florida, and stood my ground. “Uh, well, you see, Mrs. Cross, there were all these jazz terms— he was a jazz musician, right? — that I didn’t understand, so I didn’t know how to put the concepts into my own words.”

Result: B-.

I Steal

It all started in junior high, when I would fill my sweatshirt pockets with gum at the corner store. In 9th grade (of course), I advanced to shoplifting clothes.

Even though I was a totally badass shoplifter, I had a lot of compunction about it. The guilt of my crimes drove me to distraction, and I told my mom everything in a fit of hysterics.

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Forgive me! Forgive me! I stole all the gum!

I was so pathetic that instead of punishing me[3], Mom had to rock me back and forth like a baby until I calmed down. She even told me that shoplifting wasn’t so evil, and that she’d done it herself as a child. There was never a discussion about apologizing to store owners or repaying my debt to society, thank God.

For a while, I was cured. But then in 10th grade, shit got real again.

I had been musing to Angela about my glory days:

* Shoplifting 101: pick out a bra you want, and carefully hide it in a big pair of pants, etc. Then go to the changing room with the decoy apparel and pretend you’re going to try it on. Once in the stall, put the bra on under your clothes. Then go out and put the pants on the reject rack. Leave store. Come back another day. Repeat.

Angela could already taste the forbidden fruit of the loom. Resistance was futile; she quickly talked me into pulling one last heist.[4]

The mark: Kmart, the Pierre Cardin of Waterville, Maine. The score: bras and undies. We walked over to Kmart with evil in our hearts.

It would probably have worked out just fine, but we got greedy. Too many panties, not enough pants. Angela panicked, and put all her clothes away. I was about to follow suit, when all of a sudden my mom showed up OUT OF NOWHERE.

“It’s raining really hard so I thought I’d pick you up!” (Thanks for nothing, Mom.[5])

MUG!

Us, if Kmart had won. Poor Mom got caught in the crossfire.

I froze. “Uh, ok. I’ve just got to try a few things on.”

 

By the time I got to the changing rooms, all of my unmentionables had migrated to the bottom of a pair of pants in one guilty bundle. A young employee began inspecting my wad at the service desk. Just as she was about to come to the undies ball, I pulled it out and confided, “Sorry, I hid them because I was embarrassed walking around the store with underwear.” [6] I had momentarily neutralized the threat. As I walked into a dressing room,  she booked it to the manager. Then I snuck out, and put everything back like it was hot.

Shortly thereafter, a store manager came up to me with menacing adult authority.

“What are you doing?” he barked. But he was no match for me.

Shopping,” I said witheringly, in cold blood. He limped away, rubbing his deflated ball sacs.

But despite the trail of employee carnage behind me, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder. Some murky, amorphous retribution was waiting for me.

And Mom was taking forever. “Oh look, Kristy, did you need some notecards?” I just barely got out of there alive.

NOTECARD!

Result: A narrow escape, a moral victory.[7]

End of Part I

In our next installment of True Confessions: “I Pee My Pants,” “I’m Dumb as Bricks,” and “I Should Have Paid More Attention to After School Specials.”

[1] Don’t act like you didn’t, Trenchmouth.

[2] I never cheated on him, which was the least I could do, considering the gravity of my lies.

[3] I should mention that my mom has punished me a total of zero times in my life.

[4] As you can see, it was all Angela’s fault.

[5] My mom is actually the best mom in the world. If I find out you said anything about her, you’re dead! Well, probably not, but it will really hurt my feelings.

[6] God, I’m good.

[7] My friend Charo wasn’t so lucky. She is permanently banished from Walmart.

 

ONE MORE THING: I encourage you to write your own confessions in the comments!

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