This post might come under the Too Much Information category, so I’ll forgive you if you want to tune out.
I went to water aerobics this morning. I’d gotten up early and donned my two-piece swimsuit, pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt as a cover up. The water aerobics class didn’t begin until ten, so I went to my favorite coffee shop and worked on my current manuscript, managing to wrack up 1200 plus words in two hours. Not bad for a Saturday.
My watch alerted me when it was time to head to the pool and I arrived at Trousdale aquatics center with a few minutes to spare. My plan was to burn a ton of calories during my class, pack them back on at Sweet Pea Cafe, and then arrive back at Doright Manor before Studly Doright made it home from golf so I’d have my choice of nap locations. Dibs on the sofa!
About midway though froggy jumps, I realized I’d forgotten to pack my bra and undies. Hm. So as soon as I got out of the pool I stretched out on one of the loungers, soaking up the sun. But the clock was ticking. If I wanted that sofa nap I was going to need to take drastic measures.
In the locker room I pulled my T-shirt over my sort of soggy swimsuit top, but the bottoms were still really wet. So, I did something I can’t remember ever having done in my life. I pulled my jeans up over my naked bum and went commando.
Even though there was no way anyone could possibly tell I had no knickers on, I felt like I was wearing a scarlet letter on my forehead: C for commando or B for breezy. I gobbled down my lunch and scurried back to my car, then raced home, pulling into the driveway just minutes ahead of the competition.
And yes. I got the sofa—but only after I added undies to my ensemble. Going commando isn’t going to be my new norm. I promise.